The pirate clumsily fumbled for the doorknob and forcibly wrenched the door
open after he realized he'd been pulling it the wrong way. The door closed
with a soft click behind him as he shuffled into the dimly lit, dingy
looking room. He let the half-empty rum bottle slip from his dirtied
fingers, some of its contents spilling across the floor from where it had
landed. Not bothering to take the extra few steps to make it to the
dilapidated bed, the slightly swaying form slowly collapsed to its knees.
He felt like he couldn't breathe anymore, and his hands clawed at his open
shirt as he choked for air. Fresh tears spilt from the glistening, blurred
eyes down onto the now shaking hands. He hurt, everywhere. His head seared
with pain, his eyes itched, his gaze was dull, and his whole body ached
from being over tensed with emotions for too long. In a sudden flash of
anger he threw his fists forcibly down against the floorboards. Splinters
of wood tore against his flesh as he yowled in anguish, sounding more like
a wounded animal than a human being in sorrow.
"William, forgive me."
He moaned softly, struggling to his feet in a rush of adrenaline.
"Why wont you let me be?! Please . . . I can't take this torment much longer. Oh God, William, I'm sorry . . . . . I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. . ."
He had rushed at one of the walls at his utterance, banging and punching against the wood in frustration - a muffled "keep it down you bloody idiot!" coming from the room adjacent to his - till he had turned his back to the wall and slipped down against it to the floor, the last few words coming out in halted, pleading whimpers.
Pressing his face into his hands he tried to muffle the sobs that began to rack his slender, toned form till he began to hiccup. Stretching forward for the tossed bottle of rum, he took a few swigs to settle himself, cradling it against his chest when he had finished.
He was past feeling . . . anything. His body was drained of tears, of screams, of cries of anguish and loneliness. How could this man the Captain Jack Sparrow? Then again a captain without a ship, isn't much of a captain, he muttered bitterly to himself. In less than two weeks he had been mutinied upon, marooned on a deserted island, and rescued from said island. And being rescued was probably the worst part of all of that.
Worse than being betrayed by his entire crew, save one.
Worse than having to stomach the idea of that bastard and traitor Barbossa sailing his beloved ship.
Worse than being stranded alone on an island for three days.which really was one of the better moments with all that rum to keep him company now that he thought about it.
Because, if he had died on that island, he thought with a sigh, then he would never have known what had happened after he'd been stranded on that island. He would never have had to hear the stories of his ship, his traitorous crew, and of the death of Bootstrap. Jack buried his head against his knees as his body shook with dry sobs. William Turner, called Bootstrap, or Bootstrap Bill by everyone who had ever known him. He was, had been, closer than a brother, and better than the father that Jack Sparrow had never known. They had been the best of friends, and Jack had learned so much over the years from the first moment he had met the older pirate.
But now . . . .
Now, his ship was gone, he was Captain of nothing, and his best friend, his only friend, was at the bottom of the sea . . . . because of him. Certainly people didn't say whom the blame should lie on concerning Bootstrap's death, because frankly, no one really cared. But the thoughts left Jack numb inside, and shaking with guilt.
It was because of him.
Bootstrap had been the only one to stick up for him when Barbossa and the rest of his crew had decided to betray him. He was the only one who had pleaded with Barbossa to leave both of them on the island, even begged with the sadistic pirate to just let the younger man be, that he was harmless. Jack recalled how some of the crew had had to hold Bootstrap back, cursing angrily at their new Captain as Barbossa had tossed Jack off of the Pearl. Jack had learned later on how Bootstrap had continued to try and sway Barbossa's mind about marooning Jack on the island, how he had attempted to get them to turn back around to no avail.
And then, though no one was sure of all the circumstances, Bootstrap betrayed Barbossa and the rest of the crew, resulting in them tying his bootstraps to a cannon and sending it and him down to the deepest depths of the ocean. The thought, let alone the images that played across Jack's mind, made him shiver in horror. He ached for his ship, The Black Pearl. It was his everything, his whole purpose, his life and death. It was freedom, and without it, Jack couldn't possibly feel anymore mentally chained down. But the idea that he had caused Bootstrap's demise, and the way in which it had been done, was infinitely worse than losing his ship. There was always the possibility, no matter how remote, of getting his ship back. He was Jack Sparrow after all, and anything was possible when he was put into the equation. But you couldn't reclaim a dead person. Jack couldn't do anything, he couldn't save his friend because he was already dead..and he hadn't even been there to try to prevent it..and it wouldn't have happened in the first place if Bootstrap hadn't been sticking up for Jack. He had sent his own friend to a watery grave.
Jack Sparrow had drunk himself into a stupor every night from the moment he'd learned of Bootstrap's fate after he had been rescued and dropped off on the island of Tortuga. Pint after pint of rum he would shoot down his throat till his head swam and his stomach began to knot itself in protest of the constant abuse. He always seemed to have his hand leisurely grasping onto a bottle of rum nowadays. He liked the drink, of course what pirate didn't? But now it had proved to be his only means of escape without having the Pearl to sail away on. If he drank enough, which he never seemed to be able to do, he could numb his mind from having to think about his betrayal and how he had inadvertently murdered his only friend - the only person that had ever cared if he had lived or died. But, as always happened, the drunkenness would wear itself off, and the thoughts and images would come back to torment him again and again. He could never seem to escape it, no matter how hard he tried to block his mind from it. The young pirate captain succumbed to sleep every night with tears silently streaking down his cheeks. Eyes were red and raw from the crying he tried to keep within him, along with the screams of outrage. The pain just never seemed to lessen in its severity, no matter how many ways he tried to dull it each evening, it was inescapable.
Jack leaned his head against the wall, shutting his eyes as his breathing became less erratic and more settled and calmed. Something was jabbing into his gut, and after coming out of his listless state, his eyes narrowed at the realization of what it was. Slowly he wrapped his hand around it, slipping it out from his torn and tattered sash. The dying candle bounced against the gun, making it glint and shine. He let it lay in his hands, his gaze cast upon it in wonder. After a moment, Jack realized that he hadn't once really paid attention to the gun after he'd gotten off the island. Actually, he'd never paid much attention to it when he had been on the island either. That..that devil of a man, Barbossa, had tossed it out to him in the water as they sailed away. A pistol with a single shot, a courtesy if the marooned man came to the point where he needed to finally put himself out of his misery. But that thought had never occurred to Jack. He had been seething with hatred for the man that had stolen his ship from him. And when he wasn't drunk from the rum he had found on the island, his every sober thought was on getting off the island and slitting Barbossa's throat after he'd reclaimed his ship. But now was the first time he'd really spent looking over it . . . . and it still had that single shot in it. Although it had been weeks since, a smile played gently across his face, along with a familiar glint in his eye that he had become known for. He knew what he should do, and what he would do, even if he had to spend the rest of his life on it. This gun had a purpose, as did the blasted single shot that was contained within. He'd give it all back to Barbossa, just as he deserved. He would kill Barbossa with this gun, with that one shot, and take back what was his. He would do it for the friend he had lost, in the only possible way he knew how to take revenge for himself and for Bootstrap.
"I'll set things right William, I promise you that."
Jack vowed, his eyes displaying the passion now burning within him. He had a purpose now, and nothing, and no one, would keep him from attaining his goal. No matter how long it took him, Jack Sparrow would take back the Pearl, and give Barbossa what was coming to him for the wrongs he had done against Bootstrap and himself.
"I promise you."
"William, forgive me."
He moaned softly, struggling to his feet in a rush of adrenaline.
"Why wont you let me be?! Please . . . I can't take this torment much longer. Oh God, William, I'm sorry . . . . . I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. . ."
He had rushed at one of the walls at his utterance, banging and punching against the wood in frustration - a muffled "keep it down you bloody idiot!" coming from the room adjacent to his - till he had turned his back to the wall and slipped down against it to the floor, the last few words coming out in halted, pleading whimpers.
Pressing his face into his hands he tried to muffle the sobs that began to rack his slender, toned form till he began to hiccup. Stretching forward for the tossed bottle of rum, he took a few swigs to settle himself, cradling it against his chest when he had finished.
He was past feeling . . . anything. His body was drained of tears, of screams, of cries of anguish and loneliness. How could this man the Captain Jack Sparrow? Then again a captain without a ship, isn't much of a captain, he muttered bitterly to himself. In less than two weeks he had been mutinied upon, marooned on a deserted island, and rescued from said island. And being rescued was probably the worst part of all of that.
Worse than being betrayed by his entire crew, save one.
Worse than having to stomach the idea of that bastard and traitor Barbossa sailing his beloved ship.
Worse than being stranded alone on an island for three days.which really was one of the better moments with all that rum to keep him company now that he thought about it.
Because, if he had died on that island, he thought with a sigh, then he would never have known what had happened after he'd been stranded on that island. He would never have had to hear the stories of his ship, his traitorous crew, and of the death of Bootstrap. Jack buried his head against his knees as his body shook with dry sobs. William Turner, called Bootstrap, or Bootstrap Bill by everyone who had ever known him. He was, had been, closer than a brother, and better than the father that Jack Sparrow had never known. They had been the best of friends, and Jack had learned so much over the years from the first moment he had met the older pirate.
But now . . . .
Now, his ship was gone, he was Captain of nothing, and his best friend, his only friend, was at the bottom of the sea . . . . because of him. Certainly people didn't say whom the blame should lie on concerning Bootstrap's death, because frankly, no one really cared. But the thoughts left Jack numb inside, and shaking with guilt.
It was because of him.
Bootstrap had been the only one to stick up for him when Barbossa and the rest of his crew had decided to betray him. He was the only one who had pleaded with Barbossa to leave both of them on the island, even begged with the sadistic pirate to just let the younger man be, that he was harmless. Jack recalled how some of the crew had had to hold Bootstrap back, cursing angrily at their new Captain as Barbossa had tossed Jack off of the Pearl. Jack had learned later on how Bootstrap had continued to try and sway Barbossa's mind about marooning Jack on the island, how he had attempted to get them to turn back around to no avail.
And then, though no one was sure of all the circumstances, Bootstrap betrayed Barbossa and the rest of the crew, resulting in them tying his bootstraps to a cannon and sending it and him down to the deepest depths of the ocean. The thought, let alone the images that played across Jack's mind, made him shiver in horror. He ached for his ship, The Black Pearl. It was his everything, his whole purpose, his life and death. It was freedom, and without it, Jack couldn't possibly feel anymore mentally chained down. But the idea that he had caused Bootstrap's demise, and the way in which it had been done, was infinitely worse than losing his ship. There was always the possibility, no matter how remote, of getting his ship back. He was Jack Sparrow after all, and anything was possible when he was put into the equation. But you couldn't reclaim a dead person. Jack couldn't do anything, he couldn't save his friend because he was already dead..and he hadn't even been there to try to prevent it..and it wouldn't have happened in the first place if Bootstrap hadn't been sticking up for Jack. He had sent his own friend to a watery grave.
Jack Sparrow had drunk himself into a stupor every night from the moment he'd learned of Bootstrap's fate after he had been rescued and dropped off on the island of Tortuga. Pint after pint of rum he would shoot down his throat till his head swam and his stomach began to knot itself in protest of the constant abuse. He always seemed to have his hand leisurely grasping onto a bottle of rum nowadays. He liked the drink, of course what pirate didn't? But now it had proved to be his only means of escape without having the Pearl to sail away on. If he drank enough, which he never seemed to be able to do, he could numb his mind from having to think about his betrayal and how he had inadvertently murdered his only friend - the only person that had ever cared if he had lived or died. But, as always happened, the drunkenness would wear itself off, and the thoughts and images would come back to torment him again and again. He could never seem to escape it, no matter how hard he tried to block his mind from it. The young pirate captain succumbed to sleep every night with tears silently streaking down his cheeks. Eyes were red and raw from the crying he tried to keep within him, along with the screams of outrage. The pain just never seemed to lessen in its severity, no matter how many ways he tried to dull it each evening, it was inescapable.
Jack leaned his head against the wall, shutting his eyes as his breathing became less erratic and more settled and calmed. Something was jabbing into his gut, and after coming out of his listless state, his eyes narrowed at the realization of what it was. Slowly he wrapped his hand around it, slipping it out from his torn and tattered sash. The dying candle bounced against the gun, making it glint and shine. He let it lay in his hands, his gaze cast upon it in wonder. After a moment, Jack realized that he hadn't once really paid attention to the gun after he'd gotten off the island. Actually, he'd never paid much attention to it when he had been on the island either. That..that devil of a man, Barbossa, had tossed it out to him in the water as they sailed away. A pistol with a single shot, a courtesy if the marooned man came to the point where he needed to finally put himself out of his misery. But that thought had never occurred to Jack. He had been seething with hatred for the man that had stolen his ship from him. And when he wasn't drunk from the rum he had found on the island, his every sober thought was on getting off the island and slitting Barbossa's throat after he'd reclaimed his ship. But now was the first time he'd really spent looking over it . . . . and it still had that single shot in it. Although it had been weeks since, a smile played gently across his face, along with a familiar glint in his eye that he had become known for. He knew what he should do, and what he would do, even if he had to spend the rest of his life on it. This gun had a purpose, as did the blasted single shot that was contained within. He'd give it all back to Barbossa, just as he deserved. He would kill Barbossa with this gun, with that one shot, and take back what was his. He would do it for the friend he had lost, in the only possible way he knew how to take revenge for himself and for Bootstrap.
"I'll set things right William, I promise you that."
Jack vowed, his eyes displaying the passion now burning within him. He had a purpose now, and nothing, and no one, would keep him from attaining his goal. No matter how long it took him, Jack Sparrow would take back the Pearl, and give Barbossa what was coming to him for the wrongs he had done against Bootstrap and himself.
"I promise you."