Beating the Terror
First there had been terror, the same terror that had ripped screams from my throat and found me huddling in a corner of Barbossa's cabin that night as I tried to determine whether I was losing my mind or if I really had fallen into a ghost story.
Then there was rage, and purpose. Will needed my help.
When I didn't run, or scream, or whimper, he stopped and stared at me, seeming confused, uncertain.
If not for the fact that he was decaying, it might have been cute.
Then wood connected with bone.
Cute would wait for Will's safety.
