I wrote this story because I felt incredibly crappy, so forgive me bad
descriptions or anything else really. I apologize in advance. Of course, in
this piece, Jack represents a dream. Just so you know. R&R.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
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His skin, tanned like a sun-ripened fruit, slowly grew pale. Lined, chocolate eyes lost their sparkle. Hair, beaded, dark, and bold was scattered over His face. The hands, always so gentle and welcoming, became colder. His chest did not rise. No breath escaped His mouth. Dead. Hung. My rescuer, my Captain, my love.
My father held me prisoner for too long. It was his fault I ran away. It was his fault I could not swim when I fell off the battlements. But He saved me. He took me on his ship and showed me the world. He loved me like a brother, a friend, a lover and I loved Him. He made me laugh when I was unhappy and offered me His shoulder when I cried. Because of me, He returned to this damned land, for I wished to make peace.
They took Him from me. They locked me up and they killed Him. He had friends here. There they stand, looking. Look at the Governor's daughter whisper to her husband. "It is for the best," she says. Look at the crowd, their red faces amusedly watching me over His lifeless body. See the Governor's daughter approaching me. Watch as she kneels, careful not to get her skirt dirty.
"It'll be alright," she says looking into my eyes.
"He's dead," I whisper.
"At least there was no blood," she pats me on the back and I push her away.
Tears begin cascading down my cheeks. No blood. No blood. Like rain, drops fall on the ground, on Him, and on my dress. Red stains begin spreading there. One of the tears gets caught on my lips and the taste of blood makes me shiver. The crowd gasps as one. They are quiet now, too eager to watch to even cover up the eyes of their children. The bloodstains grow larger and the tears keep rushing out of my eyes. The skies grow dark and rain pours down. I gather my voice to its full strength but what comes out is barely above a loud whisper. Yet, in the square, the sound echoes like a million trumpets.
"Look at what you have done," the crowd flinches from my voice. "You have done it. He killed no one unjustly. But you, you are killers. Let my blood be a stain on your conscience. Dreams are worth dying for."
The crowd stares at me for a minute as the puddle spreads before my knees. There they are, departing in a hurry and here I am bent over Him, life leaving me, with each drop. The square is empty and so am I. I can't feel the hot tears on my face anymore, just the cold rain pounding me into the ground. So little warmth left, I raise my head one last time and let the rain carry away a soft whisper: "Remember Jack Sparrow."
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His skin, tanned like a sun-ripened fruit, slowly grew pale. Lined, chocolate eyes lost their sparkle. Hair, beaded, dark, and bold was scattered over His face. The hands, always so gentle and welcoming, became colder. His chest did not rise. No breath escaped His mouth. Dead. Hung. My rescuer, my Captain, my love.
My father held me prisoner for too long. It was his fault I ran away. It was his fault I could not swim when I fell off the battlements. But He saved me. He took me on his ship and showed me the world. He loved me like a brother, a friend, a lover and I loved Him. He made me laugh when I was unhappy and offered me His shoulder when I cried. Because of me, He returned to this damned land, for I wished to make peace.
They took Him from me. They locked me up and they killed Him. He had friends here. There they stand, looking. Look at the Governor's daughter whisper to her husband. "It is for the best," she says. Look at the crowd, their red faces amusedly watching me over His lifeless body. See the Governor's daughter approaching me. Watch as she kneels, careful not to get her skirt dirty.
"It'll be alright," she says looking into my eyes.
"He's dead," I whisper.
"At least there was no blood," she pats me on the back and I push her away.
Tears begin cascading down my cheeks. No blood. No blood. Like rain, drops fall on the ground, on Him, and on my dress. Red stains begin spreading there. One of the tears gets caught on my lips and the taste of blood makes me shiver. The crowd gasps as one. They are quiet now, too eager to watch to even cover up the eyes of their children. The bloodstains grow larger and the tears keep rushing out of my eyes. The skies grow dark and rain pours down. I gather my voice to its full strength but what comes out is barely above a loud whisper. Yet, in the square, the sound echoes like a million trumpets.
"Look at what you have done," the crowd flinches from my voice. "You have done it. He killed no one unjustly. But you, you are killers. Let my blood be a stain on your conscience. Dreams are worth dying for."
The crowd stares at me for a minute as the puddle spreads before my knees. There they are, departing in a hurry and here I am bent over Him, life leaving me, with each drop. The square is empty and so am I. I can't feel the hot tears on my face anymore, just the cold rain pounding me into the ground. So little warmth left, I raise my head one last time and let the rain carry away a soft whisper: "Remember Jack Sparrow."