The Drowning Line: Haralambi Markov
Bulgaria, M - 2016
It’s the satellite phone duct–taped around my left bicep that wakes me up. Not the late October noises in the deep night, nor the ice–cold water that cleaves my body in half at the abdomen. It’s the desperate ringing, muted under layers of plastic to keep it dry, and the death–rattle vibration that bruises my skin.