Disclaimer: I swear. It's not mine.
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"I choose not the suffocating anesthetic of the suburbs, but the violent jolt of the Capital, that is my choice."
-- The Hours, Virginia Woolf
His lips had been rough, not at all the smooth ones she had grown accustomed too. His breath had reeked of alcohol, and she had felt his callused hands through her shirt sleeves. It had been a deep kiss, deeper then any kiss she had shared with Will, and ten times harsher. It had been how she had always imagined it would be, from the time she was twelve, and first laid eyes on Will, only to find, nearly ten years later, he was gentle, and almost afraid of hurting her, as though she where a piece of China.
Now Will was looking at her with eyes of hurt, and, as he asked Tia Dalma what could be done to bring him back, she heard the contempt overlaying his voice. Will could not understand freedom, not like Jack could. She craved freedom, and that kiss had given her ten short seconds of it, a taste.
She would not, could not, return to Port Royal. She had had a taste. And she wanted more. She longed to submerge herself in it. She did not wish to return to Port Royal, and suffocate in the dull day-to-life of a Blacksmith's wife. She wanted the violent jolt of the Sea, where she could breath. Where she would no longer be forced to wear tight-fitted dresses, but could don ill-fitted shirts and breeches, and run about with bare feet, for all they cared.
She had not felt the warm, white sand in between her toes since that day on the island, for her father believed bare feet on the beach was vulgar.
She would do anything for those luxuries.
That was her decision.
She didn't want another taste, a brief indulgence.
So, her face still shining with tears, in reply to Tia Dalma's question, she whispered: "Yes."
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REVIEW! -ish rabid-
Just kidding... okay, maybe not...