Life in the Locker
I wish I was dead, the thought echoes in his head. It bounces around his skull and he cannot bring himself to say it aloud. There is a wound in his torso below his heart that has never healed. It is an open scar, a focal point of unholy worship, and scarred hands impinge its edges. Charred lips follow and an insidious tongue penetrates the fissure of flesh in a rapist's kiss. He does not cry out when the hole in his middle is gored with a scorched prick. I wish I was dead. The thought echoes in his head, but James Norrington is already dead and so is Cutler Beckett.