Splash.
Cold. Wet. No air.
She could hear voices above her, calling frantically. A line, a line! Throw her a line!
She smiled, though from between her parted lips issued a stream of bubbles, her life's air floating toward the surface to be lost. She didn't care. Her soul was in the hands of her Creator...soon she would be with her beloved parents...all would finally be well.
Salt water stung her eyes. She sank deadweight into the dark abyss of the ocean. No use resisting. She wanted to go deeper, to drown.
She wanted to die tonight. Her heart had taken its final blow. If she did not die now she would simply waste away until she died of grief.
She wanted it all to be over- the pain, the heartache, the lies.
No more air.
She drew a deep breath and felt water gush into her lungs.
With a smile, she gave up and let the sea take her into eternity.
"Cap'n. We've spotted somethin' a quarter stern. Think it's a survivor o' somethin"
The barnacled sailor gazed bleakly at his captain, his watery eyes unfocused and drawn. Like the rest of his cursed crewmates, Ogilvey was covered in sea fauna and coral, more beast than man in his undead state. Like the rest of his crewmates, he had sold his soul to Davy Jones in service aboard the Flying Dutchman. Like the rest of them, he was doomed to mutate into a beast and become part of the phantom ship itself.
He shuddered as his captain pushed past him, the ominous thud-step-thud of his footsteps echoing in the creaking cabin. More terrifying, more cruel, and more feared than his crew, Davy Jones was certainly a nightmarish sight in broad daylight. He had a beard of octopus tentacles that writhed and curled with a life of their own and a nasty claw for a left arm. The gimp in his gait was caused by his right leg being that of a crab. His right hand was misshapen and tentacled. He wore faded and barnacled sailor's clothes and his tricorne pointed to resemble devil horns. His sea-blue eyes took in the world with a hostile glare, and as he walked he snapped his claw in irritation.
"What are ye bilge rats gawkin' at?" he growled, upon seeing the crew bunched up at the rail, staring eagerly at a floating clump of...something. He couldn't make it out, not with all their distorted heads blocking the view.
They scattered like cockroaches when he approached them, giving him plenty of room. He saw what had been the object of so much attention and scowled. It was a female, from the look of it...a female floating by on a mess of kelp and driftwood. It looked as if maybe a playful dolphin had dragged her up and gotten her snagged in the sea junk.
"Haul her up an' kill her if she's breathin'." Jones snarled. He had no use for women. Women were the source of his problems.
The crew obeyed. As soon as they had her in tow she fell to the deck. Lifeless. Water leaked from her limp mouth and trickled down her lily-white skin. She was stone dead.
Jones studied the figure from a distance. She was young, obviously; maybe twenty? She had auburn hair. What she was wearing was what captivated him most, however; a wedding dress. Had a two-faced groom killed her? Had she fallen overboard before her wedding? A hundred tragic possibilities surged in his mind. Had she taken poison because she was not happy?
"What do we do wi' her, cap'n?" Maccus, the First Mate, growled.
Jones continued to stare at the lifeless girl. She wore babies' breath braided in her locks. He noticed the ruined roses pinned to the bodice of her dress. Lace, and ribbons; all white. A virgin bound for the altar.
"Cap'n?" Maccus asked again, confused.
Jones snapped out of his trance and glared at him. "To yer business, as usual. I'll deal with this runt"
The crewmen wandered silently back to their tasks. Jones found his gaze wandering back to the girl. He saw something tucked in the cleavage of her bodice. A rolled-up paper. A message explaining her death, perhaps?
He tried to ignore it but curiosity won. He had to know what it was. As far as he knew, young women simply didn't stick paper in their shirts.
When the crew was occupied with something attention-absorbing, a renegade boom caught on a faulty line, he reached down, grabbing a handful of hair, and dragged her to his cabin. He slammed the door behind him and casually lifted her, laying her on the long-unused bunk. She limply lay their like a gangly dead fish.
Carefully, feeling a bit sheepish as he did so, he reached in and pulled out his prize, a scroll of sorts. It was soaked through. He flicked it open and what met his eyes was somewhat disconcerting.
It read:
"To whoever finds this note:
My name is Marian de Moravia. I was an heiress and Lady of Tullibardine. By now I am dead, and have gone to a far better place than my former existencial state.
I drowned myself because I was terribly, terribly sad. My wedding was to be at Port Royal, at the seaside chapel. A lovely place, where one can see the sunset and feel the sea breeze at dusk. I was to be wed with a bouquet of roses, violets, and babies' breath. Have you ever seen a white rose in its full bloomed glory? It is beautiful. I dreamed so long of white roses and music and dancing. I was in love, with a man I gave my heart to without question. I loved him. Yet he could not see it. And I was left at the altar, alone.
How can I explain what went on in my heart? It was as if my soul had been ripped apart by fire. Suddenly the world was a graveyard and every breath a dying gasp. I had waited so long...so long! I had leaned on his promise. And when he took it away from me all that I could do was fall.
I write this to tell you of my pain, why I leapt overboard into the sea. I have thought of this long and hard and am confident I will pass death undeterred. I conclude this letter with a request: Please, please do not cause this pain to another. Please, keep your promises, be true and faithful. Please do not break the hearts of those who love you.
Sincerely, M. de M"
Jones felt a peculiar tightening in his chest, his empty scarred chest where his heart had once been. Now the organ lay in a cold iron chest buried far away, torn out over the same pain that had driven this maiden to her death in the sea. Heartbreak! Betrayal! Pain!
He sat on his organ-bench, the paper crinkling as he clenched his fist.
Reminders even in death!
He could almost see it in his mind: a young girl bedecked in white, tears flowing down her rose-cheeked face, her hands folded over her breast in agony. White roses scattered across the ground. A lonely altar with no groom.
A lonely beach without Calypso.
He threw down the scroll with a garbled snarl. No words in particular. Just an animal noise of rage and pain.
Just a masked scream of dashed dreams and hopeless forever.
He cast a sideways glance at the dead girl. She was so young. So innocent.
So brave.
"Ye didnae fear death." he said quietly, stroking her hair. It felt so strange, to feel such soft curls in his slimy, cold hand. They were like tendrils of silk. Soft silk, unfit for a monster.
Unfit for death!
He took her cold, stiff hand in his and felt her soft skin. No scales or boils or barnacles, just normal skin. How long had it been since he felt anything so pure?
They were alone, the dead and the undead. He was alone.
He turned and sat, and began to play his song.
It was his curse put to music. It was his haunted scream of heartache translated into a new tongue. It went on and on, to a crescendo then to a sweeping ritardando, then back up to forte. He didn't use his hands, he used the tentacles of his beard. His curse put to use.
He stopped. Silence.
He stood and stared out at the setting sun.
Somehow he felt some small kinship to the girl. He couldn't cause her more pain; she was dead.
Why not give her a quiet requiem?
Carefully, slowly, he picked her up and took her back to the balcony that jutted out from the back of the ship. Below them the waves lapped, glistening in the fading light.
Her head rested on his shoulder, producing a feeling inside him that felt.
Pain!
He tossed her over, not even blinking as she hit the water. She sank dead weight and disappeared in a matter of minutes. He kept his gaze fixed on her face as she sank into the cold Nothing.
Jones made his way back to the organ, absently reaching up to touch the place where the girl's head had rested. He growled as he picked something off. A white rose, damaged by the sea, but still beautiful.
He stalked back to the balcony and stopped. The white rose fluttered in the breeze, and a petal broke off, flying away with a fairy-like dance in the breeze. He let the rest of it fly. The separate petals all spiraled away, dancing, flying, until they were lost in the air.
So flies love, he thought glumly.
Goodbye, Marian.
Another farewell to love.