I sit here alone and silent on the shipthe weathered deck creaking mournfully as the sea washes up against the sides of the ship. The sound used to comfort me - I remember the constant splashing of the waves on the ship when I came here as a child. Now the sound is empty, bleak; unfeeling and rough. I feel as if I'm the only one alive in this vast expanse of ocean.

For the first time, I'm noticing the callouses on my hands, the sweat and grime on my skin. It didn't matter before, but now the thrill of adventure has faded, leaving me feeling dirty and tired in my boys' clothes.

The oil lamp flickers and splutters out and the sleeping watchman makes no move to relight it. The chaotic, tangled thoughts I've been pushing away for days engulf as the darkness does.

I've killed him. Oh God, I've killed him.

No. I've murdered him.

Killing is a word used to describe what is done in the heat of battle, a word reserved for action taken against a foe, a word for something committed in self-defense against an enemy.

Murder is a much colder, crueler word. Murder is something very different, and I fear I do not like the taste of it.

At the moment he had at last shown his true colors - I always knew you were a good man - what a harsh thing to reward him with such ruthlessness. As if one good deed was not enough, and I had to force him into another... with the cruelest kind of betrayal. That brilliant spark of life was prematurely extinguished, by my hand, and it seems to have left a black hole in the world. I fancy I can feel it lurking over my shoulder, trying to suck me in where I can drown in my guilt.

I can still taste murder on my tongue.

I stare out at the black skies, the dark wisps of clouds barely illuminated by the shard of moon, and I torment myself by imagining him standing there in the darkness; that hat, that swagger, those silly trinkets in his hair. I don't think I'll ever forget the look in his eyes, or the smirk on his lips. "Pirate." God, I hear that word - the accusation, or the praise? - drumming in my head like a mantra, over and over and over until I think I'll go mad! I remind myself that it was for all of us. It was the only way to escape alive. Better for one to be sacrified than all to perish... right? Sometimes I wonder if I would I have sacrificed Will... or myself.

I can still taste murder on my tongue.

A strange noise startles me into reality, and I raise my gaze to see a half-full bottle of rum rolling idly on the deck. The idea of sinking myself into a drunken stupor is tempting - but I suddenly realize, the only time in my life I've ever drunk that foul brew is when I was with him. I close my eyes, unable to look at it anymore.

I try to see this in a better light and I think about what I've saved. Myself, Will, Mr Gibbs, the rest of the crew. I think of what I've lost... or is it what I've deliberately thrown away? And the shame, and the sorrow, and the "what ifs" weigh my down like rocks on my chest until I almost can't breathe.

I can still taste murder on my tongue. For me, murder tastes of salt, and sweat, and a hint of rum.