Broken

By the-girl-with-the-broken-wings

(A/N Also, this story is set after the third movie, assuming that in the third movie Elizabeth and Will live happily ever after, Jack goes free and comes back to Tortuga, and they are all alive and well.)


(Normal POV)

Slut, she was called.

Whore, she was called, as she was passed from one man to another.

The whore of Tortuga.

She had a name once, a real one. But it lay, unused, for years.

It was Gwen.

A girl of nineteen years was bent over a table in the tavern, wiping the table. She was slim and tall, with a tangled mane of long red hair running down her back. She was wearing a low cut green dress. It had a flowy skirt with a minimum of tatters and stains on it, and a black bodice. The arms were skin tight, and the bodice a little too low. But after all, she was a cheap Tortuga whore.

Her face, unsmiling, had a smarting bruise on the side. Her hair fell into her face. Her lips were brightly colored with a sharp red.

But her eyes; her eyes were a piercing green. A sparkling fiery dark green that showed her independence though her attitude did not.


(Gwen's POV)

He walked in, like any other customer.

"What is it?" I said wearily.

"Hello, love," he said. I looked at him. He was a tall man, slim, with a tri-cornered hat on and a long, well worn, brown coat. His face was tan and he had long hair and an unkept goatee.

"What is it?" I repeated. "What do you want?"

"I want what any other man might want when walking into a tavern, some ale and some company," he said with a wink. He sat down at a table nearest to me.

"If it's 'service' you be wanting, you'll have to talk to him," I nodded my head toward Mark, who… runs things here.

When I was seven, my parents, dirt poor like everyone here in Tortuga, sold me to Mark. He bought me as a slave. To do his bidding, and the bidding of his customers. That's how I ended up here, working as a whore. For the pleasure of Mark, and others.

I am bought for a few pennies.

There are people who think slavery is a thing of the past.

They are wrong.

The man didn't get a chance to answer; Mark hurried over at the sight of a new customer.

"How much will you give for her?" The man asked, without preliminaries, his teasing tone gone. He was entirely serious.


(Jack's POV)

I walked into the tavern. It was a hubbub of motion and noise. Immediately, though, a girl caught my sight. She was washing a table. She was tall and thin, too thin, with long copper curls running down her back. She scrubbed the wooden table viciously, as if it had done something to annoy her.

She saw me and returned my stares with a bold one of her own. I walked over to her.

"What is it?" she asked sharply.

"Hello, love," I said. She had fire, that's for sure.

"What is it? What do you want?"

Her body looked weary, tired beyond tired. She was a slave, I guessed. A love slave.

"I want what any other man might want when walking into a tavern, some ale and some company," I said with a smile.

I pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

A man approached me. He was wide as he was tall, with an un-kept beard, but fine clothes. His teeth were an unsightly yellow, and he smelled of stale ale.

"How much will you give for her?" I asked him quietly, surprising myself. I didn't know why I had done that. I obviously didn't disapprove of whores. Obviously. I smiled inwardly. But this one… there was so much more. She was mistreated, that much was clear. Her face had a large bruise on it, her feet were shoeless.

He sighed, then sat down across from me. His form was bulky, his clothes, too tight, his face, too hairy, his manner, too rough.

"Are you in the business?" he asked in a gruff whisper. "Do you want to buy her?"

I lowered my voice as well. Though someone would probably not overhear us, if you were overheard talking about or selling a slave, the punishments were very harsh. Being quartered, and such torture.

"Aye, savvy," I replied.

"You're outta luck. She's not for sale. She's my… personal slave," she said with a trace of a smirk on his face.

"Six gold pieces," I said, my eyes not leaving his face for a second.

He whistled under his breath. Six gold pieces would feed a poor family for a whole year. A year and a half, even, if they used the money well.

His bulging eyes narrowed slightly. "Eight," he said.

"Seven," I said.

"Eight," he insisted.

"Done," I said reluctantly.


(Gwen's POV)

Mark hurried over and grabbed me by my arm. He leered at me, showing his yellowing spittle flecked teeth. I glared at him.

"You're his now."

What? I looked at him. I bit my lip and looked at him. He didn't look that bad.

So I followed him out the door. No looking back.


(Note from the Author: Please Review!!!!! I am very keen on this fic. Tell me what you think of it. Thank you. Also, check out my other stories!)