Of all the Sufferers' disciples gathering on the boats, she is the on that stands out. She is special.
I keep her separate because she is precious and she is mine. The rest of the slaves toil below, worked to the brim, tortured and maimed, but not her.
I keep her separate because she is the one I hide for myself. She is lovely, lovelier than the rest, lovelier than any I have ever seen. She stands on the deck conducting the birds, hanging on so desperately to her final string of sanity. She is my greatest pleasure.
I stand and watch her with glee. She resists more than others and it enrages and excites me all at once. I take her will effortlessly. Her mind twists and turns under my grip. I yearn for, yet simultaneously dread the day she stops this futile fight. I only know that when she finally succumbs to me completely will be the when I finally toss her aside. But she is stubborn and she does not give in. I bite my lip with excitement, tasting my own blood. Despite the tragedy embedded onto her skin, she moves with the greatest poise and firmest grace. Her hands are like the wind. I sneer. There are certain inherent personal habits one cannot mimic. Her light dance in the night only serves to remind me of my own limits. Would those weightless hands ever drift along my skin as they do to the air?
She does not face me but I make it known that I am there. She continues speaking to the birds. They are her only companions in this charming prison I have fashioned for her. I stand back and watch her a while. Her mind is gone but she still moves with the supreme elegance. With a graceful leap she is on top of the bow. She does not jump because I do not allow her to. Instead she continues to dance. Each time she tries (and subsequently fails) more of her mind leaves her, but I am always there to prevent it from departing her completely. There is no escape from here.
She turns to me and smiles, baring her perfectly aligned teeth. She holds out her arms, exposing her delicate wrists, scarred with the indentations of her sharpened grin. Her eyes are wide and full of tears. She knows she cannot die here, so she stops her dance and approaches me instead.
She stands in front of me for a moment before turning around. She presses her back up against me, wrapping her arms around my neck.
"The waves are singing to me. They want me to build a castle made of sand. They want me to build it as high as the clouds so I can spend all my days singing with the birds. I can build a big plank for me to dive so I can swim with all the creatures of the sea. I know how much you love planks."
Her arms slowly slink away from an embrace. Her hands gently circle around my neck in a choking hold. She arches her back to look at me upside-down and slightly presses down on her grip.
"It would be thoroughly enjoyable if you could walk that plank with me."
She lets go of her grip and breaks into a fit of laughter. She starts spinning round and round like a ballerina, until she dizzies herself into collapse. I am swift enough to catch her as she falls.
I humour her.
"That would be mighty joyous my dear, but you do know what it takes to build castles that high."
Her eyes are glazed. She is somewhere else and she can only half hear my response. I put my mouth closer to her ear and make her focus on me and me alone.
"What would that be Marquise?"
"Why," I smirk a little, "we would have to fill many buckets with handfuls of dirt."
The tears that stream down her face make her skin glow in the moonlight. I take her in and she has no choice but to obey. We are in my cabin and her breath against my skin breaks all the sails within my chest. Her pants come out as little whimpers, and behind her touch I feel a hidden plot. Within her fingertips there is revolution chasing every caress. But there is no revolution here. This is a different kind of war.
We battle with teeth, we battle with skin, we battle through pure contact. Unadulterated carnality takes the both of us in the heat, and eventually I lose control of my mental grip – but by that point my abilities are no longer necessary. I beg her to give me what I deserve, and I likewise give her hers. She spits at me with her thoughts and bites me with her teeth. I revel in every blow and respond with the softest of strokes. I handle her with the tenderest of care and she responds with the vilest hate and the hate fucks me and I love it, swimming in an ocean of black.
Afterwards she clings to me and her touch becomes soft and loving. Still, her hands do not sway across my body the way they do to the wind. That bitter resentment still rests behind her skin. She rises only to tend to my wounds, the wounds she inflicted in our throes. She stares right into my eyes as she works, and the truths I see behind those eyes are deeply unsettling. Even I, the mistress of all that is hateful and wicked, shudder at the blackness hidden within those depths.
They say that the blanket of darkness hides the lurking monsters. Never had I feared such tales – it was always I who assumed the role devil that would stalk in the night. But monster as I was, my proudest creation was making something ugly of a specimen so beautiful. Only in my mind would I ever speak of how much the blackness lurking behind those eyes truly terrified me.
I turn away from them and stare instead at the ceiling. She continues to work diligently without whimper or complaint. Yes, I think to myself as I close my eyes, she is my proudest achievement. I inhale sharply. This is my proudest moment.