Disclaimer: I own nothing whatsoever having to do with Pirates of the Caribbean. Nor do I own the wonderful writing style of Sandra Cisneros, which has inspired this particular piece.

-

The old woman on the corner with teeth like crooked houses says we are sinners. She stinks of old urine and stale hair and I can't see any of her beneath her soiled blankets. Only her eyes, the color of red dirt. Hatred in layers and bitterness. She has had a hard life.

Sinners, she says, her mouth a gaping hole in a face like cracked soil. You will all burn in hell for selling your bodies to evil men. God save you.

God save you.

The other girls don't seem to notice. Remember, I want to say, remember when we were children? Remember when we were free?

Where we live is in a house as old as the ancient pelican that sits on the dock some days. A crooked wing. Rheumy eyes. We live in a town named for a turtle. The Spanish sounds strange on my tongue. Tortuga.

Everyone comes here.

-

We walk into our home with our bright dresses and sore feet and the men watch us through strange eyes. We sway our hips and our skirts fan out behind us like clouds.

Yours is the one with the mustache. Dirty fingernails. Flinty eyes. Mine is the one with the braids and the big arms. They talk to us like lovers.

Come here, love. How would you like a drink? Come and sit over here. That's alright, a spill never hurt anyone. We'll get you another one.

I'm not talking because I wonder how much he can pay. What did you say?

-

It doesn't hurt most of the time. I pretend to like it because then they give you more money. Sometimes they're too rough and then you scream and Mama Kate rushes in and hits them with a big stick and tells them to leave. We're her girls, she says.

Mama Kate is the first mother I can remember. I've been here for a long time.

She's better than some of the others, the older girls say. We've been around. Mama Kate is pretty damn good compared to some of 'em. You should feel lucky, girl. You can make a lot more money here than the other places. Here she pays you half.

Which is why I tell the men to do whatever they like. Whatever makes them happy. Whatever will pay me the most.

I can't live on nothing. What other way is there in this place?

-

You didn't know, did you? You didn't know what it was like for me here. You just touched my eyelashes and kissed my mouth and left me.

The first time I saw you was in the tavern. You weren't drinking. Everyone else was, but not you.

You were beautiful, like the expensive Italian oil painting I saw when a rich man wanted me in his wife's bed. Black hair, curling like thick wood shavings. Olive and glowing in the dark. You took me upstairs and I didn't mind.

I touched your nipple like a brown walnut and looked at your thin, long legs. You had strong, thick shoulders and delicate collarbones. I remember thinking that was a strange combination.

You said you played the violin. You had artists' hands, slim and brown with calloused fingertips from the strings. I imagined the music you made, crescendo and decrescendo, fortissimo and pianissimo, allegro and andante. Soaring like a bird and flying away.

Il mio amore. Bella. You are mia vita. Il mio cielo.

You talked like cream. Like oil. Smooth.

L'amo. I love you.

You said that everyone makes mistakes, sometimes. That you didn't blame me for my life. That you'd take me away.

And then you left me and sailed off. Back to wherever you came from.

And now I live like this. Sinners.

God save you.

-

A/N: And this is how this particular story will continue. Little bits of freeform poetry and short, frequent chapters. We will learn more about our main character, the poor girl, as I write more. I'm not completely sure where this story is going, although I have a rough idea. I don't know if I'll continue much further that a few more chapters, either. Should I? It's all up to you guys, in the end.

Our favorite captain will appear in the next chapter. It is Tortuga, after all. How could Jack stay away?

As always, tell me what you think. Nice variation from TFOE?