That day remains one of the most detailed of my life, and the most ambiguous, if that makes sense. I guess I could elaborate. I was a punk eighteen-year-old kid, trying to survive my senior year. We've all felt that, right? The 'I'm-almost-free-but-not-really' anxiety; well, anyway I know I was feeling it. And it just so happened that I did not have school that day. Some sort of standardized test that pigeon-holes student potential, but we won't get into that issue, as that's not part of the story. Being a senior, I was exempt from this test, and so, I could sleep in on that glorious Tuesday morning. Unfortunately, I'm one of those people that cannot sleep later than ten o'clock, no matter how late I am up the night before. Doesn't that annoy the shit out of you? Well it did me, because, I was awake and coherent at the butt crack of dawn, nearly nine. So I hauled myself out of bed, and didn't bother to make my bed. What was the point, really? I would end up unmaking it a few hours from now. Might as well as skip the whole clean up stage entirely.

After I had pulled a hoodie over my night shirt, I moved to the kitchen and proceeded to make myself the best drink in the world. A gargantuan mug of Chai tea; I hate coffee, see? Anyway, I've got my Chai, and my Pirates of the Caribbean socks – found them on E Bay for eight-ninty-five a pair; I bought myself fourteen – and I truck on into the computer room. The room looked like Hurricane Chloe had passed through…multiple times. There were papers, and pictures and e-mails, covering every square inch of surface in the room. I was a big on editing, so many aspiring writers who were getting their start writing smutty Jack fictions or Will and Jack slash would send me the manuscripts and I would read and review and edit for them. They didn't mind the feedback. Around the net, I was known as the forefront authority on Captain Jack Sparrow lingo and character development. If they had a degree for it in college, I would have the Ph.D., savvy? So, I booted up the ancient computer that I found in a garage sale a very long time ago. I grumbled about my messy boyfriend, shoving his share of papers off of the keyboard and settling down to check my messages.

I'm not one of those people who check e-mail. The best place to reach me is at one of the many Pirates of the Caribbean posting forums. I have an account for practically everyone. I don't bother with the ones that obsess about Barbossa and those miscreants. After what they did to Jack, they don't deserve to have one all to their onesie. Oops. Again I've slipped into Jack-speak. Sorry, but his one-line epithets work so well in so many situations. What was I talking about now? Ah yes, so I was checking my messages and I found something disturbing in my inbox. Some woman of lesser intelligence sent her entire story through the private message feature of one of the boards that I visit. This girl could not write herself out of a corner, let me tell you. She rambled on for fourteen bloody chapters about how Jack Sparrow was the most fearsome pirate in the Caribbean. No plot, no conflict, no anything! Needless to say I flamed her pretty bad. I drew great amusement from letting her know that "If CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow ever saw her story he would keel over and die." It was that bad.

After reviewing stories and answering those questions that could not wait, I stretched and tried my best to relieve the pressure in my lower back. I tend to slouch when I'm at the computer for long stretches of time. With a groan I checked my watch. I'd done everything impertinent and it was only ten-fourty-two in the morning. I shrugged. When in doubt, pop in the movie – THE movie. So I headed to the TV room, and put in the Pirates of the Caribbean DVD. With my tri-colored afghan around my shoulders, I tucked my 'Savvy' socks under me and settled down to watch. I was through the English, Spanish and French versions and starting on the extras when I began to feel light-headed, a sure sign of exhaustion. My eyes drooped and I snuggled into the warmth of my blanket, my head resting on the arm of my velour couch.

I woke slowly, eyes blinking rapidly. I wondered briefly if my boyfriend was home. I shrugged and moved to get off of the bed. Instead of the soft fabric of the afghan, I felt the roughness of unprocessed cotton sheets. Cotton? We had nothing of this texture anywhere in the house. I should know; I went shopping for it all. I looked around trying to make out anything that could tip me off as to where I actually was. It was so dark I could stick my hand right in front of my face and I couldn't see it.

"What the . . .?" I muttered, completely confused. Did the electricity go out? Not an uncommon occurrence for the neighborhood, I admitted to myself as I threw my legs over the side of what I was sitting on. My feet encountered smooth floorboards instead of the oatmeal carpet I'd spent eight hours in Home Depot trying to find. What the hell is going on? I wondered, rubbing a hand to my head. I had to be dreaming. That was the only logical explanation. I frowned again and stood up, and began searching for a way out. After banging into an bedside table, a dresser and the wall, I decided against this plan and fell back on, what I'd figured was a bed, with a grunt. This was most definitely not going well. "Where in the hell am I?" I whispered to myself. A sound somewhere to my left has my head whipping around. I watch in fascination as a shaft of blue light drifts into the room and it took a moment for my citified brain to recognize the glow as unadulterated moonlight. A few seconds later, the door was shut, but now a candle flame flickered. I tucked my feet under me and stared at it as it started to move. I watched in fascination, jumping when two glowing eyes appear over the flickering orange light.

Stupid, candles can't move by themselves. I chastised myself and frowned at the hovering eyes, that as it drew closer I could see were attached to a body, a very attractive body, by the looks of it. My eyes traveled up the length of him, from the bare toes, up the ragged pants the cloth sash serving as a belt, the poofy-sleeved shirt with the 'V' in the middle, showing a section of tanned, muscular chest. Over the strong line of his throat, the beard hanging in two braids, the lips that any woman would hope to kiss theirs, and finally to the eyes. Dark, mysterious, they showed nothing but the leap and sway of the candle flame in their depths. The hair framing the face was as dark as the eyes, offset by the glint of jewels, beads and a coin in his braids, controlled, or at least kept at bay by a red bandana that hid most of his forehead.

"'Ello," he said in a gravelly voice that nearly sent me into convulsions, the shivers that were running up and down my spine were that severe.

"Wh . . . who are you?" I stuttered, trying to get my tongue around the words, said organ feeling too swollen and immobile to be of much use.

"I think I'll be askin' the questions, lass," he returned evenly. I frowned in confusion.

"If it's a ransom you want, no one will pay. Not a single cent," I cautioned him. He shrugged, setting the candle on the table before walking around, lighting candles until the room was wreathed in the soft, romantic glow of candlelight.

"If that were what I was after, I might consider lettin' ye go, but . . . as it stands now, ye're a stowaway and I'll deal with ye as I please, savvy?"

My head was spinning. With the extra light, I could see him in more detail, and what I saw made my breath congeal in my lungs. It . . . it couldn't be. No dream was this real. But, as I stared at him with wide eyes, I knew that was the only logical explanation. I reached up and pinched myself, jumping at the pain that shot up my arm. Definitely not a dream - Okay, I coached myself, stay calm. Maybe you've sleep-walked and this guy is some kind of drunken psycho. "St . . . stowaway?" forcing the word at last when I could see him growing agitated at my lack of talking.

"Aye, as it seems ye're on me ship without my permission," he grumbled, eyeing me up and down. I looked at my own clothes and blushed a little. I was talking to a drunken psychotically handsome guy in naught but my pajamas. Not the best position to be in. "Jus' what are ye doin' 'ere lass?"

I frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about," I return evenly, moving slightly, so that more distance lay between the swaying man and me. He looked as though he'd had one too many to drink and was trying his best to stave off the alcohol-induced coma that was, no doubt, pounding at his eyes. "I don't even know where 'here' is." He stared at me for a long moment.

"Well, lass, this be the Black Pearl," he stated, throwing both arms wide and swaying a little side to side. "Ain't she grand?" he asked, happily. My eyes widened and I nodded on instinct. This man was definitely a loony.

"I wouldn't know; I've never seen her," I lied smoothly. The man didn't know my obsession with Pirates, and there was no way he could pick up on my lie. A disturbing thought came to me. Unless he was a stalker and he wanted to rape, rob and murder me. I grimaced, the last thing I wanted to do was lay out some drunken sod, but if he made one wrong mood I was going Tae Kwon Do on his ass. I was, after all a second-degree gold belt, and if the man wanted to play, then, by God, we would rumble.

"Never seen 'er?" he demanded hoarsely, weaving as he made his way over to where I was sitting. "Are ye daft then?" He groaned and clapped a hand to his head. I rolled my eyes.

"No I'm not daft," I corrected him. "What I am, is late for dinner, so if you'll excuse me." I rose and started to push past him, gasping when his hand shot out and closed over my arm. I shifted a little, looking at the hand wrapped around my hoodie incased arm. It was wide-palmed with narrow masculine fingers, a couple of which were adorned with rings. I studied them for a long moment. I fancy hands, you see, so these fascinated me. They were the perfect line, and perfect proportion. They obviously had the strength, and the dexterity to grab onto what they wanted and not let go, but there was also restraint, and gentleness in the way the fingers didn't press into the skin, but encased it in the 'O' they made. "Unhand me, if you please," I said coming back to the present.

He shook his head. "I didn't give ye leave t'go, lass," he said, shaking his head apologetically. "An' no one walks out on Jack Sparrow unless 'e gives 'em leave, savvy?"

"Captain Jack Sparrow," I corrected him automatically. My eyes widened as I realized what I had just said, and that led me to what he just said. "Did you say Captain Jack Sparrow?" He nodded, frowning as my eyes grew wider and wider. "You're Captain Jack Sparrow? You're Captain Jack Sparrow!" I clapped my free hand on my forehead and blew out a breath, "Holy God!" Without another word I fainted dead away.