Chapter III
Beneath the Stars
Just to forewarn you, there is a switching of point of views about halfway through this chapter. Oh, and things may get a little PG-13 (gasp!) after that. The warning is mostly because there are mentioned several rather morbid topics that might upset the kiddies. That, and the fact that this is a Whorington, after all. However, we all know how smutty I am, so is there really any need to worry?
Also, to Madam Librarian: You didn't sound ticky at all! In fact, I encourage comments like yours – that's what that Author's Request/Reminder exists, after all. And I'm glad you pointed that out because it made me realize something: While I was aware that whoring wasn't just for pirates but for nobility as well, I'd completely forgotten to mention why Norrington (or, at least, my version) is so against it. If you reread Chapter I, you'll see that I made the necessary corrections and added a note. Thanks for telling me!
۞۞۞
The world was spinning as he was thrown into an alley by the patrons of the Ring O' Bells. He lay on his side, gasping whenever a boot connected with his midsection. A hand reached down for him, the callused skin grating against his throat as he was hauled roughly upward and forced to look into the gnarled face of a pirate. The scene before him was a blur, the colors melted together to form nothing. Blackness crept in along the edges.
He was vaguely aware of being shaken, of the pirate spiting an insult at him as he was sharply returned to consciousness. The man's fingers were still curled around his neck.
"You got a death wish, struttin' around in that getup an' sayin' what you like." He glared in disgust at the stained, ragged naval uniform. "It's a wonder you've lasted this long."
"Why not kill me now, then, sir? Be done with me."
The man sneered at the challenge and released him, straightening up as he fell backwards.
"You ain't worth it."
He spat at the fallen naval officer and turned. His fellow pirates followed, their savage jeers becoming nothing more than a murmur in the distance.
۞۞۞
This was a typical night for him, now. It usually began by spending a good portion of the evening curled up inside a bottle of rum with only his thoughts for company. He would think of the past; of all his failures; of the loss of his mother and his father's despair; of himself as a midshipman and that first fateful encounter with pirates that had resulted in his oldest brother's death and had driven him to rid the seas of such nefarious, licentious creatures; of Elizabeth, happy with her fiancé and not thinking of him; of the loss of the Interceptor; of that damnable pirate and the chase that lost him good men, two of his dearest friends, another ship, and himself.
These thoughts, with the aid of the rum, would cause his blood and anger to rise. He would provoke several drunkards until they started a fight where he neither desired nor intended to be the victor. He did nothing to stop the pain he brought upon himself night after night, not when he knew he deserved it. And so he went on like that, the days extending into weeks and the weeks into months, accepting the abuse of men he would have once had arrested, hoping that they would carry out what he hadn't the courage to do.
It was true, he did have a death wish. There was nothing left for him, no hope of returning to his former life; he no longer saw a reason to continue yet he had failed, time and again, to end his life. He would lay in the gutter, exactly as he was now, or be slumped against a wall, watching as the night sky was covered in a misty veil of pink and the stars were extinguished like the trembling flames of millions of candles. He would raise his pistol to his head and all sound – every hum of the insects, every shout from the taverns – would evaporate, save for the whisper of the sea.
His hand would begin to quake, but his pistol would remain in place. He would cock it, the click sounding dry and hollow in his ears, and think of how simple it would be. A motion so unnoticeably small – a mere twitch of his fingers – would end it all. There would be no more remorse, no more pain; there would be nothing but blessed oblivion.
But that sweet Lethe would never come.
He was too much of a coward – he, who had once been the scourge of pirates in the Caribbean, who had gone into countless battles without hesitation, was afraid to pull the trigger. Despite how he yearned for it, craved it night and day, he could not embrace death. Defeated by his own fear, the pistol would drop to his side and he would pull his legs up to his chest, his face hidden by his knees as he waited for sleep to come and grant just a taste of that precious bliss.
۞۞۞
She smiled blissfully, paying no mind to the man on top of her. Tonight – rather, today – she would have a bed. The moment she was finished with this customer, she would have collected enough to pay for a room at one of the inns. There was even the possibility of a meal, provided that this gentleman enjoyed her services.
Bernson, she recalled, was his name. He was a large man, both vertically and horizontally, with an enormous beard that scratched whenever his lips met her flesh, as well as a dome-like head that was only covered in a layer of sweat. He was loud, rank, and clearly drunk but both his ruddy face and his demeanor were kind, even if he did insist on calling her "m'lady."
The name had a curious effect on her for she found herself saddened by it (she was no lady) and at the same time it amused her to no end – and for the same reason, no less! The ridiculousness of the title was great, yet she could not help but be the tiniest bit flattered. And it wasn't so bizarre a sobriquet – she had called stranger things and, anyway, she preferred it to the name of some lost lover, which had happened in the past. That always made her uncomfortable. But then, with whoring, her personal preferences weren't primary concerns. Fulfill the customer's request or starve – a simple way of looking at the business and since that was the case, she would consent to being a lady for a night if it meant having money the following morning.
His breathing was heavy, the thick and stinging scent of alcohol hitting her face. God, but this was unpleasant! She rather wished that she was the one on top, but, alas, she was on her back, the bruises on her shoulder blades growing with every thrust. He certainly was the lively one! Bloody rocks, she thought as a stone made her left hip's acquaintance. Would it have been such a task to rent a room? Really, she failed to see why he couldn't contain himself and had to have his way with her in an alley…
Think of the bed, she told herself sternly. It had been ages since she had had a full, peaceful night of rest. It mattered not if the mattress was sagging, the sheets were rough, and the pillows were lumpy. What mattered was that she could at last, after so many months, enjoy herself. It wasn't the same when a customer took her to bed. Hours after they had finished the room would still echo with their moans and the bedding would reek of man and woman and be damp with fluids from when a pair of bodies was in the throes of passion.
But when there was no physical labor involved…when no man collapsed beside her, exhausted and panting…beds were simply delightful.
A moan caught in her throat as his finger snagged on of the many knots in her hair. Fortunately, his misinterpreted, taking her strangled outcry as a sign of pleasure, and his actions instantly became more vigorous.
"Oh, yeh like that kind o'treatment, do yeh, m'lady?" he wheezed jovially, his fetid breath tainting the cool night air. She made a noncommittal noise in response. Neither yes nor no; keeping him satisfied was what mattered the most. As long as he was enjoying himself now, she could enjoy herself later.
She decided that a little cry of ecstasy was in order.
"Oh!"
And again.
"Ohh!"
She had to commend herself – they were quite explosive towards the end. He shuddered at the climax, his breathing more labored than ever before, perspiration rolling from his gleaming brow in many rivers, collecting on his chin and nose before finally landing on her face. She could not conceal her revulsion this time and turned her head desperately. Her partner failed to notice, having collapsed on top of her, his breaths at last growing steady.
"Well!" she sighed pleasantly, the thought of a bed making it difficult to contain her giddiness. "I had a lovely evenin', dearest… I…" She swallowed, eager for her payment. "I hope that you will…say th' same?"
His only answer was a gargled snore.
Her eyes went wide.
"Darling?"
Lovely. Yes, simply marvelous. He'd exhausted himself, the oaf, and had chosen her as his mattress! Blasted man...! She tried to calm herself; no good would come from fretting…she needed to keep a level head. Of course, this proved to be rather difficult when all but her right arm and head were pinned under a triturating mass of a man.
The alley suddenly seemed much smaller than she had previously thought. Darker, quieter…
There was a faint amount of pressure within her ribcage.
Why was it she heard no music, no laughter, no shouting?
Her breathing quickened its pace, as if running for its life.
They were only just outside the Ring O' Bells, were they not?
Good Lord…it was as if her lungs were swelling! Or were they shrinking, withering away into little wisps of singed parchment? It was difficult to say…
Why couldn't she hear anything? Why were her eyes suddenly filled with nothing but the night sky? Goodness, but the stars were extraordinary tonight, practically afire in their brilliance…
Her chest was becoming uncomfortably tight as it filled scorching, burning, blistering heat – wood to feed the flames of her panic.
It then occurred to her, through the smoke of her blazing distress, that she might be dying.
But she was getting ahead of herself.
She couldn't possibly be dying. Not here; not now. After all, if she were about to meet her demise, then there would be music – the heavenly choir. Perhaps a blinding white light, as well. Gilded harps, the softly fluttering wings of angels, resplendent clouds…and divine, rapturous, celestial bliss – not darkness and fire. Unless she was one of the damned – a chilling thought.
It was impractical, she assured herself, for, despite her wicked profession, she was a devout Catholic and had been since she was a child. She attended services every Sunday at Tortuga's seedy little church and confessed regularly – she had even been baptized. Of course, one could only do so much to save one's soul from eternal hellfire…Sometimes prayers, confessions, and devotion were not enough. Still, she thought with groggy, childish irritation, she was not about to die. This thickening fog was intruding upon her normal mindset, dulling her senses and allowing her mind to wander down foolish trails where it met angels and demons and other nonsensical wraiths of her childhood. Nevertheless, even if she had not reached her end, there lingered still the irrepressible desire remove her person from beneath her employer.
With her unrestrained arm she attempted to push the snuffling lout away, imagining that he would, certainly, at the very least, awaken at the unexpected movement? Alas, no. He remained asleep, contented and peaceful, all the while unaware of her struggle.
"Lovey?" she tried again, pausing briefly to note that, during the time she had fought and overcome her fear, speaking had become quite a task. "Darling, you have to wake up – you forgot to pay me." Again she shook him and again there was no response. She bit her lip, taking in several quick, frightened breaths.
That sickening thought had somehow wormed its way into her brain, unwilling to leave her be.
"Please, please, wake up – you must wake up!"
It was as if he was crushing her words as well as her body. She knew that she could not be imagining the sound of her ribs creaking as the bone began to shatter. She thought nothing of her legs for she could no longer feel them. The hips and back screamed as they were driven into the stone and all the while contused skin whimpered at the torment. And her lungs…her poor lungs were enflamed, distending rapidly, ready to burst…
"Someone, please, I need help!"
The thought pushed forward, wanting to be heard.
"Please! Dear God, please – I'm suffocating!"
Her eyes stretched to their limit she tore at him, fighting desperately before it made itself known.
"Help, please, someone…" she gasped feebly. "Please help…I can't breathe…"
She failed to quell that torturous idea. She thought that she had banished it with her sensibility but somehow the heart-rending notion had burrowed back inside her head, only now she knew that it was not a speculation, but a fact: She was dying.
She would not simply lie there until he eventually awoke. She would not stiffly rise as he blurted out a stream of apologies. She would not dust herself off, nonchalantly waving away his pleas for forgiveness, nor would she hold out her hand for the money she undoubtedly deserved. She would not retire to a ramshackle inn for the remainder of the day, sinking deep into a moldy, straw-stuffed mattress for several hours of uninterrupted paradise. Instead she would die on the dusty, unfeeling cobbles of an alleyway, just another corpse for the rats to feast upon until she was discovered at last and tossed, unceremoniously, into an unmarked grave.
The stars were so lovely tonight, she mused, at last surrendering to the mysterious, cloud-filled dreamland that lightheadedness bore. It was a place made up of the sort of things that a person neither remembered nor took the time to notice – a nonsense world filled with the tales and games one could recognize from youth, and of course stars. It was a blur of colors, dotted here and there with tiny balls of light that still glittered even as they began to fade.
۞۞۞
"Help, please, someone…" a poor gasp of a voice begged, cracking with emotion. "Please help…I can't breathe…"
His eyes flew open.
He struggled to his feet, suddenly feeling very sober. It had been those words… The last time he had heard them they had flown from the enchanting lips of his fiancée.
Former fiancée, sneered the trenchant reality, making him detest the word all the more as unwanted memories were unleashed.
"I can't breathe…"
He had been terrified for her, as he had been that fateful day she tumbled from the battlement; when that damned Sparrow had threatened her life, using her has a human shield; when he learned that she had been kidnapped by pirates… He had always feared for her safety, placing it on a pedestal, high above the welfare of himself and others.
"I can't breathe…"
He had been about to reach out to take her hand – even then, amidst the turmoil and concern, thrilling at the rare contact – she had shot up. With her eyes wildly scanning the crowd she had looked beyond his confused relief to the one she truly loved. It was then that he knew: It had all been a ruse; she had never wanted to marry him, had never loved him…
If she could see him now…
Don't, he warned himself as he hurried down the alley. His accursed conscience would refuse him rest until he sought out the source of the commotion, daring to hope that it would be someone in distress, to believe that there was the smallest chance that he would play the hero once more, that there was a possibility of redemption in his future.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen, he thought with bitter sarcasm as his search came to an abrupt end.
At first sight it was, to his utter revulsion, another one of Tortuga's prostitutes servicing a rotund lowlife. Disgusted by his own pathetic state, by how desperately he wanted to help someone – as if that would make him a commodore again – he turned to leave, intent on finding a bottle of rum to comfort his shattered person. Then, he heard it again: that pleading, breathless tone – a pitiful mew – calling out to him.
"Please…! Don't – don't leave me…"
In the weak morning sunlight he was able to detect a faint, purplish tinct to the woman's face. His eyes went wide as he staggered back, horror-stricken. Good God – she was being suffocated!
His mind-fog was rapidly dissipating, replaced with blind valor. He moved quickly, all the while cursing his inebriation, the shaking in his legs, the clumsiness of his hands. The dirt was suddenly slick beneath his feet and he slid constantly as he attempted to shove an unconscious man off of a slowly dying woman. His body, weary from the earlier beating and weighed down by rum, was betraying him, the muscles in his back and shoulders burned at the strain, yet he pressed onward, unrelenting.
There was a loud gasping beside him – the sound of wind rushing to fill lungs that had gone without for too long. Unexpected relief washed over him when he turned to see that the air had restored to her skin a normal, healthy color. His euphoria was short-lived, however, as the woman pressed a hand to her chest, her face pinched with pain as she began to shiver.
"Are you harmed?" he asked.
She favored him with a distracted shake of her head as she gingerly got to her feet.
He frowned but moved toward her, too easily falling victim to old chivalrous habits as he removed his coat and placed it around her shoulders.
She appeared stunned, thought not ungrateful for his courtesy and even pulled the remnant of his former life closer despite its (undoubtedly) offensive odor and state. She looked up at him, grainy black trails crawling from eyes that were red with moisture. Her voice shook as she offered him an vast amount of thanks and unending gratitude, vowing that she was ever in his debt, swearing that, somehow, there must be a way to repay him.
He should have shaken his head, insisting that she think nothing of the rescue. Instead he stared at her, gaping dumbly at the irritatingly familiar dress and its hideous green color, the dilapidated tower of hair, the heaving chest, the long nose, the dark eyes that scrutinized him even now…
Yvette.
The little strumpet appeared to have recognized him at the exact same moment for she blanched and slowly closed her eyes, drawing a hand to her forehead. Though perhaps, he ventured, she was on the verge of fainting? With this thought in mind he quickly moved to assist her only to be brushed aside by a weakly fluttering hand.
"M'all right," she murmured, showing nothing to indicate that she knew who he was. "Jus' need t'breathe, is all…"
He nodded, though he doubted she noticed, and went to lean against the wall of the tavern, the excessive drinking, the fight from before, and the recent exertions having made him suffer in a state of dizzying exhaustion. Seeing this prostitute again had only increased his sorry plight, causing an angry pulsation in his left temple – one he feared would be inexorable. Perhaps, he speculated, if he just stayed put, it would all go away…the whore, the memories, the pain…
A scuffling sound near his feet.
His eyes, gummed shut with weariness, were forced open little by little as he carefully turned his head.
She hadn't gone away has he had wished. She was crouched down in front of that large, sleeping man and was busy pilfering his pockets, confiscating all she found.
"The man is unconscious," he stated exasperatedly. "Have you no shame?"
"Not when said man nearly killed me, no," she replied simply, turning to give him a wry grin. "I feel he owes me."
She stood up, dusting off her gaudy dress, and approached him slowly, eyes shining with renewed salaciousness. Without warning, she pressed up against him, grinning wickedly, grinding her hips into his own as he watched her with fascinated horror. Her lips were mere inches from his, her breath warm and her voice husky, barely a whisper.
"An' I owe you…"
He stiffened, words of protest stumbling over one another in their haste to escape.
"No, you – you owe me nothing."
She pouted, as unyielding as his headache.
"But I do…"
"No," he stated firmly, placing his hands on her shoulders, briefly remarking at the jutting bones, and gingerly steered her away. "I'm afraid that your…display of…gratitude is wasted, for you are presenting it to a man who has no desire for it."
"That's th' second time y've turned down my offer," she said quietly, coyly.
"If I recall correctly, the first time you were never truly making me an offer."
She turned to face him, lips curling upward.
"So y'do recognize me. I'd assumed as much."
"It would appear that making assumptions based on unsubstantial evidence is a habit of yours."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Would y'not call that makin' an assumption of yer own?"
"Perhaps," he agreed evenly. "However, unlike yourself, it is not a habit of mine."
"Says you. I'm not th' best with numbers, but I think I'm right in sayin' that makes two fer you."
"Even so, and forgive my bold words, but that estimate pales when juxtaposed with your list of assumptions."
She smiled with cheeky confidence.
"That's three."
He rolled his eyes, immediately wishing he had refrained from doing so – his head was already wheeling precariously; there was no need to encourage it. In the distance, Yvette had become quite verbose, clearly unaware of her rescuer's anguish.
"Listen, myself is th' only thing I have t'offer. Don't y'understand? I feel indebted t'you!"
"You're not," he told her sternly, vexation creeping into his tone. "And even if I did expect to be rewarded for coming to your aid, I would remain as adamant in refusing your advances as I am now. So please, for the sake of us both, accept the fact that I saved your life because I felt it right and that I neither expect nor want anything in return."
He turned his back to her – just has he had done in the tavern weeks ago – the final word his once more, and left her to her thoughts. Again he assumed his position at the wall, the rough stone cool from the night, prickling his skin, making him uncomfortably aware of the misty dawn and reminding him that his coat was now in the possession of a whore.
Lifting his head quickly caused him to grimace and the alley to become speckled with dark splotches and popping stars. Gritting his teeth, he withstood the pain to search for Yvette, who, thankfully, was but a few feet across from him, busying herself with wiping the smudged kohl from her cheeks (and only creating greater streaks in the process). As if sensing his eyes upon her, she looked up, her gaze meeting his, and watched him with quiet interest.
"You're not well."
His brow creased in bewilderment. He had been certain that she would say "What?" in a clipped, demanding tone that clearly marked how annoyed she was with being stared at. If not that, then he thought that she would have been flattered by his scrutiny, sashayed over, and made some infuriating remark about how he had been "caught in the act," so to speak, and how it would do him no good to deny it because his lust for her was all too obvious.
Yet she had proved both of his speculations false, startling him with a remark about his health. And the manner in which it had been spoken – that was equally puzzling. There was no warmth in her words, no compassion…but it was not a plain, callous stating of the facts. Most peculiar.
He held up a hand, assuring her that he was quite all right, merely withstanding the consequences of his own foolishness; all in all, nothing that could not be overcome with several hours' rest. As he said this, it tasted a lie – bitter salivation in his mouth – but if it resulted in her departure, then it would suffice.
The persistent harlot did not leave but presented him with another smile, her face aglow with the light of one who has just had a brilliant thought. All color drained from his face as he waited with mounting dread for what she was about to say.
"That's it, then," she proposed happily. "You'll share a bed with me."
He felt ill.
There was a moment's silence between them – she stared at him expectantly; he closed his eyes and slid to the ground, the wall scraping against his back.
"What," he began flatly, "will make you realize that I am repulsed by the very idea of 'sharing a bed with you?'"
"Th' idea of simply sleeping by th' side of a woman – nothin' more, nothin' less – repulses you?"
He looked up at her, surprised to see her at his side and furious with himself for not noticing sooner. She smirked.
"Y'know, fer someone so very much against bedroom games, y'certainly think about 'em a lot."
He ignored the barb. At that moment arduous activities such as thinking made his head pound. Instead he regarded her with wary confusion, unsure of how trustworthy she was. After all, even if she didn't…have her way with him…there was no guarantee that he would survive the night – day – unscathed. She could rob him – she already had his coat; he had nothing for her to steal, save for his pistol and sword, and they had been suffering from disuse for months, now. Perhaps she would drug him and then sell him to a Molly house? Though he shuddered at the thought, he failed to see her motive. Then, if nothing else, there was always the chance that she would do him in… but had he not, for the past several months, been trying to do that himself? Therefore, if she were to kill him, he should consider it a favor…
A faint moan rose from his throat and he shut his eyes, praying that what little he had eaten that day would stay put. He pressed a hand to his abdomen, though no relief came from the action.
This was his own fault, this misery. He had no one to blame but himself for this hell on Earth. He had known that, with his head in its current condition, too much time spent on contemplation would make him ill, just as he had know that it was foolish to consume six…seven…tankards of rum…just as he had known it was madness to attempt to sail through a hurricane…that he would be fighting a losing battle…that good men would be lost as a result of his own selfishness…
He gasped, his insides twisting horribly, desperate to escape.
Through the blinding nausea he heard someone in the distance mutter, "Oh dear" before he was roughly grabbed by the shoulders and hauled out into the street.
The urge was even stronger, now, and so tempting. He wanted to resist, yet…something insisted that, if he capitulated, he would feel better. The logic beat inside his skull as the world spun before him, everything smearing together in a sickening amalgam of shapes and colors. His pride swirled with them, becoming lost in the mess. It was useless, now. He surrendered.
The contents of his stomach came rushing forth, exploding from his mouth and onto the cobblestones until there was nothing left.
His face burned as he stood there, weak, shaking, overwhelmed with humiliation and shame.
And at his side was Yvette holding out a frayed handkerchief.
He looked away, unable to meet her sympathetic gaze and hating himself for feeling embarrassed in the presence of a woman that sold her body for a living. He accepted the rag without comment, his eyes downcast.
"All right, then," she said softly.
He nodded stiffly, silently cursing himself for what he was about to do.
"Do I have your word that…nothing will happen?" His voice was hoarse, brittle, trembling – so foreign to his ears. He despised it.
Yvette appeared shocked and a bit perplexed by his question, but her expression quickly softened with understanding.
"On my honor – or…lack thereof," she began haltingly, "I swear t'you that, if'n y'do choose t'spend a night with me – share a bed, sheets, pillows…an' sleep in th' same space as a whore…that no shenanigans of any kind will take place." She smirked faintly. "Lovey, I give you my word that my word is all that I'll give you."
He swallowed nervously, tasting bile.
"Very well. If that is the case, then I feel…inclined to…accept your previous offer – assuming, of course, that it still stands?"
There was a small hint of relief in her next words.
"It does."
"Then, perhaps, we should –"
"O'course," she said at once and motioned for him to follow her. He complied, lapsing into a brooding silence that she, thank God, seemed to understand and chose not to interrupt. He turned her handkerchief over in his palm, contemplating his latest actions – the actions of a desperate man.
High above, the last of the stars began to fade, becoming one with the watery light of the morning sky.
۞۞۞
NotesStars – and here I didn't think symbolism was possible with a story this short. Basically, the stars represent hope (in Norrington's case) and life (Yvette's) being extinguished. Well, save for the very last line in this chapter, of course. In that case, the stars symbolize reconciliation, coming together – all that good stuff.
…that first fateful encounter with pirates – there is more to this, of course, but once again it is a story for a different chapter.
…that precious bliss/ She smiled blissfully – done so deliberately that it needed to be pointed out. If you read deep enough, you should (hopefully) be able to see how similar the first and second scenes are, at least as far as wording goes.
"I'm suffocating!" – admittedly, I thought that this was much more interesting and disturbing than the getting-raped-in-an-alley cliché, wouldn't you agree?
"I can't breathe…" – I debated for quite a while before finally deciding to do this. It's just that I normally refrain from recycling lines from the movie as that has the tendency to be both boring and annoying. Let me know if this is either, gang.
…he removed his coat and placed it around her shoulders – it's not Mary-Sue magic, I swear! This is really my attempt to keep him in character. Really, I think that, despite all he's been through, Norrington would still be somewhat of a gentleman and, upon seeing Yvette's shaking, would automatically think to give her his coat.
Yvette - still not her real name. Just wanted to remind everyone.
He stiffened – to repel any sexual innuendoes this might inspire…his entire body stiffens, although, and I highly doubt anyone will know what I'm talking about, this is actually a throwback to the Yeston/Kopit version of the Phantom of the Opera. In one scene it reads: "Christine walks up behind Erik and puts her arms around him. He stiffens." My English teacher unwisely had my class read this adaptation aloud and, of course, upon voicing this line, everyone's inner pervert went into overdrive.
A Simple Request/Reminder from the Author
I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again as I have done with my works in the past. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-ish even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna mary u!!!11 this is the new OTP!!!!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can. Merci in advance!