Authors note: I'm having a few technical difficulties and none of my format has been showing up. Please have patience. Also, how about instead of leaving me a review of everything thing I did wrong and everything I should correct, send me a private e-mail at emeraldblood@hotmail.com. THANKEEES and enjoy the show.

When I awoke, I found myself in a small room that was decorated with maps along the walls. A small table stood in the corner with an open diary upon it. After I found that my legs were trusty enough, I stood and drew myself over towards the desk. In the diary I read the latest entry:

"Finley spok to the mute by. Por lad faintd. E's resten in me ruum til e's wel."

After leafing through the pages of the journal, I found it littered with spelling and grammar mistakes. I suppose one could call it my teacherly instinct to cluck my tongue and wag my head. Surprisingly enough, I resisted the urge to go back over and correct the horrendous errors. I heard the door click behind me, open then shut. My eyes drew up the wall till I was standing straight before I turned around. Facing me was the jolly Peter, smile stretching from ear to ear. I must admit I was rather frightened before I saw his face due to the fact that I had been tearing through his personal diary. Peter threw his arms around me and chuckled lightly. "y'mist not meet folk so of'n, eh?" he slurred at me. It took a few moments to register, then I shook my head and replied, "No.Well.yes, but I haven't been myself lately." There was a pause as Peter stood there as if trying to think of something hospitable to do for me. Before he could speak another word I astonishingly leaped into conversation. "You know," I said, "I used to teach at the primary school in my home town. I could teach you better grammar...or even how to.....ehm..spell?" Peter merely wagged his head, "I been te school. Never could learn mor'n me alphabet." This was my opportunity, I though. I could teach Peter how to write CORRECTLY and then when we got to America, I would be a school teacher. As color returned to my cheeks, I nodded quickly, "but I'll teach you! I'll teach you better than ever before. I'll be the best teacher that ever was." Hearing such words flow from my mouth seemed rather odd to me seeing as though I hadn't spoken in ages. No matter, though, for I had found something worthwhile to do with my life. No longer did I have the desire to end my life in the back of my heart. I wanted to live. Now, as I write I can remember that feeling and it brings a smile to my face and it warms my frozen heart. I taught Peter to read. I taught Peter to speak. Once he started speaking correctly, we would carry on in conversation, telling the other about ourselves and so on. As it turns out, his father is the furniture company's owner and when he passes away, Peter will take over the business. He asked about everything about me. Who in my family had the same color eyes as me, where did I get my clothes, what was my mother like, and last of all, where did my ring come from. At first, I teetered on the thought of telling him it was an heirloom. Instead, I was truthful. I told him the tale of how I aquired it and it's mate. I told him, also that I had given the other ring to a girl whom I had been in love with who chose to marry someone else. "I suppose it feels like we're connected. Two of a kind, the rings are. Just like we were, she and I." My story, although I told it with a bit of lackluster, brought my companion to tears.

Days passed by and I was sure we would be close to America by now. I asked Peter to ask the captain for me early one morning before we'd left the room (by now, you see we were sharing a room.) and he agreed and skipped out. Nearly an hour passed before I decided to disembark from the room myself. Although for the hour before hand I had been hearing splashing sounds as if someone were throwing the furniture overboard. A scream filled my ears and made every hair on my body stand up straight. I ran to the door and attempted to swing it open, but to no avail. It seemed to be weighted down by something very heavy. Through the door I heard many shouts, the sounds of pistols and the clash of steel upon steel. Something terrible was going on out there and I couldn't get the bloody door open. I remained there for what seemed like an eternity, hearing tortured screams of what I knew where my crewmates. This meant only one thing. Pirates. I'd heard of pirates before in fairy tales and story books that I the children at school were asked to read. Most dreaded pirates never took prisoners, but they never let anyone go, either. A long silence caused me to press my ear against the door. Once I did, I felt something sharp poking against my hand. Upon backing up I found that there were three triangles of metal poking through the door as if someone had begun to nail something through the wood. Now is the time to open the door, I thought. I braced myself, took a hold of the handle and pulled hard. The door lazily swung open. I was face to face with Peter. He was pinned against the door by two knives and a sword. One knife was through his left eye, the blood from his head ran down his face and covered his clothes. The sword pined him through the stomach and the other knife was through his right leg. Before I knew it, tears were shooting from my eyes. The one friend I had made was murdered by the damned pirates. No longer had I anything to live for and I cared for everything less than I had ever before. The ground was under my hands and I knew I had collapsed to my knees.
No sooner had I fallen then I felt something grab onto my neck. I felt a blow to the back and I was then let free. I turned around to face my assailant, however my vision was impaired by tears.

I remember saying before blacking out, "Don't stop.thank you."