The deck could never be too clean.
Or, so she continued to repeat to herself as she scrubbed the same area with increasing ferocity, clenching her teeth together tightly as if to keep the vocal equivalent of her thoughts behind locked behind them.
There was something therapeutic about heavy, laborious cleaning when she became agitated. At the bar, she would simply fall back to the kitchen and take over dish duty for an hour or so when serving the customers became too emotionally taxing. On the ship, chores to preoccupy herself with were similar to some of the others in Tortuga and certainly more plentiful. She had cleaned many floors at the bar and on previous ships like this; hands and knees on the ground, a bucket of suds beside her, a coarse brush in hand. However, the fact that it was noon on a clear day in the Caribbean added a new layer of complexity- the blazing heat from the sun that baked her flesh and soaked her airy, cotton shirt in perspiration.
She actually preferred it. The more unbearable the job, the more able she was to forget her regret about re-joining a pirate crew, her perpetual disgust with Jack's behavior, or the even more revolting sensation of nauseating airiness in the pit of her stomach whenever he paid her special attention.
The grating of bristles against wood were enough to make his words unintelligible, but not sufficient to drown him out all together as he conversed with Mr. Gibbs a few feet away. She could hear the egotism in every syllable that slipped from his lips, as no matter the nature of the conversation, his tone was always ridden with noticeable narcissism.
Why, in god's name, did it have to be him? Why was it always so that the most independent of women had to fall for men who prided themselves on claiming and tossing the opposite sex like objects? Was self-sufficiency and aggression in females simply a product of an insecurity that they subconsciously always knew they had? Namely, to favor chauvinistic men over those who were respectful and worthwhile? She cringed at the thought, but couldn't think of an explanation with any more ease than she could for why she had fallen in love with Jack in the first place.
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He couldn't remember much from the previous night. The events would come to him, occasionally, in sporadic, jumbled scenes that had no clear chronological order. He could, however, remember the early evening more clearly, as he had yet to consume any alcohol and was just recovering from his binge from the night before.
It had all the attributes of an ordinary, routine evening on Tortuga, the kind he had been experiencing for, what he estimated to be, close to three weeks now. He drank himself into a stupor, slept until midday in the streets or the beach-wherever he managed to swagger off to before passing out-, and allowed himself to recover and eat a light meal at the bar before starting the cycle all over again. It was a pathetic existence, but it numbed the sting of failure significantly, and since he was either drunk or asleep a majority of the time, he had never an ample opportunity to contemplate the gravity of his situation.
Unbeknownst to him, however, this night would be different from the others. On this night, the man whom he felt most comfortable with laying the blame on for landing him in his current position would miraculously turn up in the very bar he haunted. This was not the reason he had chosen Tortuga as his new place of residence, nor had he been scheming possible forms of retribution when the pirate Captain made his inevitable appearance. It had all just fallen into place very conveniently, and he didn't feel the need to think anything through when he made his way over to the recruiting table. Somehow, without ever consulting himself on the matter beforehand, he knew exactly what he'd say to Jack Sparrow, and exactly what he'd do with the pistol that now felt particularly warm and heavy on his belt.
After that, the memory became hazy. He could recall an abundant amount of pirates all coming at him at once. He could remember attempting to swat them away like flies with his rapier, and their numbers never seeming to decrease. He could remember seeing the empty, upturned table where Jack and Mr. Gibbs once sat, and the thought of disdain and frustration that had run through his head upon noticing this. But the figure that was, surprisingly, more prevalent than any other from that night, was the dark-skinned woman that had both brought him to his demise and promptly rescued him from it.
The remainder of memorable tidbits floating around in his consciousness seemed to all feature her. He could remember walking with her down the cobbled streets, leaning against her surprisingly strong, yet much smaller form. He couldn't exactly recall anything they had said, only remembering the conversation as pleasant, and the tone of her voice as calmingly melodious. His first glimpse of her face, when she had rescued him from suffocation, also stuck vividly in his mind, and more so than many experiences he'd had while not intoxicated.
He'd found an unexpected comfort in the serenity of her features. Though her eyes were stern, focused, and her jaw was clenched tightly in undying aggression, her expressions were not without a certain aura of comfort and a tranquility that he had never known. He didn't think it was only due to the fact that she had shown him selfless kindness, as the feeling had yet to dissipate when he looked at her even now.
He had been wracking his brain all morning to come up with something to say to her. She had taken no effort to acknowledge him, and while it was true the entirety of the crew had been preoccupied the whole time with getting the voyage underway, it was no less discouraging. He knew they had shared a rather pleasant, relaxing interaction the night before, and he wouldn't be satisfied with metaphorically sweeping the whole thing under the carpet, even if he couldn't remember the conversation. Furthermore, he found himself inexplicably fascinated with her, and in the spirit of any proper scientist, wanted to investigate the issue in more depth.
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"How strange. I could have sworn I saw myself in this particular spot of the deck."
Two, sickeningly familiar, sea-worn leather boots emerged into her peripheral as she abruptly halted scrubbing. She could feel her heart jump into her throat with a nauseating mixture of fear and disappointment. As her eyes traveled upward, the figure she had been arduously trying to avoid all morning began to materialize before her.
"I think you've dedicated enough time and effort to that brush and bucket. I propose some time off."
The bandaged, calloused, ring-encrusted hand of Jack Sparrow reached down to receive hers. She couldn't help but notice the neck of a rum bottle clutched in the other, and immediately realized the nature of the impending situation, sighing softly and briefly clenching her eyelids shut.
I'm busy. Leave me alone. Go away. I want to be left alone.
Any of these responses would suffice, she told herself. Insist upon his departure and he'll quickly lose interest. You don't want his attention.
But she did. Against her better judgment and everything else she stood for, she did. She wanted him to notice her, to request her company, and how could she possibly turn from an opportunity where he was doing just that?
She accepted his hand, feeling her stomach drop to her knees as he helped her to her feet. Her heart and mind would never come to terms with another in this issue, that much she was sure of. As the two made their way to his stateroom, talking idly to one another, undeniably flirting back-and-forth, a war was waged inside of her and, as per usual, her heart was the reigning champion.
Unbeknownst to her, however, there was the heart of a nearby spectator that experienced the contrary as the owner watched her disappear with Jack into the Captain's quarters. His organ fell to his knees in a similar fashion to her stomach, realizing with much discontent that the Dominican woman, his savior, was already spoken for. Quietly, he returned to his task of mopping, wishing with every fiber of his being that he had been left to rot.
