Over a Pint of Rum
Here we are: the next chapter... FINALLY! Ive been a bit distracted but hopefully I'll have this fic up and running soon! Sorry for taking so long:P
Chapter 1
Usually when most people tell their story, they start with their birth and their family. But I'm not most people, you see, I wasn't born until I became a pirate. It's the only thing I've ever known, the only thing I've ever wanted, the only thing I've ever had. So, this is where I'll begin, how I became the man I am.
Being Captain Jack Sparrow, you may not expect this story to be entirely truthful. To consist of the legends that have befallen my name. I want to lie, like the dishonest soul I am. To jumble up the truth and develop into an even bigger myth than I already am. To become the legends I've always wanted to grasp in my hand, but never been able to reach. Like the stars stretching over the heavens where only the gods can reach. Sometimes I think myself as a god, invincible, untouchable. But I'm not; I still get bruised, scratched, scarred. There are things forgotten and thing I wish to forget. There are things not even I know, that I cannot believe. There are times in my life void of any meaning, any story. Blank you might say. I could fill my life with what I wanted to happen, but I wont. So here is my story, my life. In blunt truth. The blunt honest truth.
As I recall, I escaped on the eve of the New Year. It was quite fitting at the time, the end of hell and the beginning of heaven. But my call for the sea was well before that. Ever since I was a little runt, I'd dreamed of the sea. Of the freedom of not knowing where you're going, the rising fire star cracking open to bring a brand new adventure everyday, the thrill of going beyond that horizon where few ever really reach. For, too reach that place, you have to fly. Soar above the heavens and stretch beyond that fallen star, wishing it will never stop, till your fingertips curl around the edges and stroke the very fibres of … freedom.
I was born a bastard to a wealthy merchant. He was a tall Latino with flowing brown hair, bright eyes that winked when streams of sunlight bounced off them and a wicked smile that could charm any lady. And that's just what he did, charmed my mother into bed, not a second thought as to what the outcome could be: me. I never actually met him; he'd promised her that he'd come back. Earn enough money to whisk her off to a church then buy a nice house next to the sea, the perfect place to raise the "brats" as he said. He sent letters containing enough money to last a few weeks. But as the letters got fewer and fewer, the money got less and less. I'm obliged that he actually bothered to pretend to care. He may not have the decency to be a father, but he still had the civility to think about me. And yet, she still held hope, even when months and months passed without word. We were starving. Finally, no letters came, no word, no money. We assumed that he either died or forgot. Mother preferring the brutality of the first as appose to the cruelty of the latter.
We were left to fend for ourselves and the only way for a woman to feed her bastard son is to become a lady of the night. Selling herself so we can at least eat once, enough to last until the next day. As a result, I was never a tall as other boys my age. Even now, I'm still a bit on the shorter side, but I guess that's made redundant in other aspects of oneself.
My mother used to be beautiful English peasant with raven black hair and smouldering brown eyes. The streets made her hard. She lost the spark in her eyes, the blush in her cheeks, her eyes became hooded and her lips pale. After a hard nights work in the back alleys, she used to come home, eyes glazed over from chasing the dragon, a harsh escape form the dreary truths of reality, and just looked at me, a forlorn smile across her small destroyed features. She said I looked like him. The only thing I inherited form her are her eyes, the dark dangerous mirrors that reflect neither happiness or sorrow, but intelligence and apathy. I cannot afford to show emotion. Anymore.
Since my mother was always at work, I had no means of entertainment other than creating trouble. I was always a "problem", a "troublesome piece of shit" as individuals so kindly described me. What can I say? I've always had a talent for stealing apples effortlessly form the local market, running wild in the streets, throwing rotting food off passing nobles. By the age of seven, I had been in a jail cell eleven times, always managing to weave a tale so vivid and unrealistic that the soldiers let me out because I was "such a good la'uf".
I used to watch the ships glide into the harbour, skimming over the liquid sun and pull to a sluggish stop. I watched in interest as the plump shiny dock master pranced around with his wig askew, clasping in his grimy hands the gold coins bribed to him, a filthy greedy smile stretching across his otherwise unfriendly mouth. That's where I saw him first, at the docks, planting money in the dock master's dirty clasp.
A weathered face set in a blanket of folds. Thinning grey hair scrapped back behind a tricorn hat, wisps flying in the wind. His walk was unsteady as he stumbled down the pier. His over sized shirt billowed out, stained with sweat, blood and dirt. A coat draped over his shoulders and a gold-rimmed sword that seemed to sing in the light hung at his belt. He radiated power, despite his age and I stared in awe. He passed me, flicking a single coin into my hand, winking.
His name was Jack.
Please send constructive critisim or encouragement!