GHOST SHIP | Prologue Continued
His mind is immediately swarmed with questions raising their hands, jumping, and pointing their microphones at him. He can't answer any of them and parts the crowd.
Focus.
He glances at the sheet around his wrists. In the dark, he tries to discern a simple loop he can twist out of, or a knot tied with uncertain, clumsy fingers, but sees no opening. His fingers clench uselessly and frustration wraps its spindly legs around his gut. Who put him here? Who tied this knot?
The boat rocks and Aeron slips on his feet. He lands with his teeth knocking and his head spinning. His back groans with a newfound ache, laced with enough pain to make nearly all his fear give way to irritation. How dare they do this to him? Were they doing this for money? Aeron bends. He wants to go home.
Aeron jolts. He realises that his elbows can touch the ground. He looks up and sees that the sheet has slid down to the lower half of the pole.
It's loose!
He gives his hands a violent shake. They don't move – but the sheet does. An idea slams into his head with enough force to leave his thoughts swimming. Aeron forces himself to stand again, despite his trembling and tired limbs. His stretches out with one leg and attempts to kick the door.
His misses, and the pull of his hamstring stuns him for a second. He clenches his teeth and twists the sheet so he stands adjacent to the door. Again, he reaches out with his leg, pointing his toes as he tries to push the handle. He touches it, and slams down hard, but it just rebounds as his leg drops.
Vexation curls its fingers into his ribcage and squeezes. He exhales and tries again. The boat sways uncertainly. Aeron pulls his leg down and carefully follows the motion of the moving ship, ensuring that he is able to stand steadily. When all is still, he reaches out with one final, desperate kick, and the door gapes open.
A beam of sunlight shoots into the room. Aeron squints and blinks past the strain in his eyes, however, all he sees outside the door is white. In the sun, he is blinder.
A child-like breeze slowly pushes the opening wider, carrying the smell of salt. Aeron closes his eyes for an impatient minute and opens them again. Dry tears cake his vision, but he sees the ragged, brown wood of a deck.
The boat staggers in the air for a millisecond and falls down again. Aeron's breath shudders. Beyond white railings, all he sees is an empty ocean.
Where was he going?
His brain stutters and loops the question in his mind.
He tries to remember how he ended up in the ship, but his brain circuits and burns. He feels something, a vague something at the back of his mind, but the gates are closing on his fingers and he can't grasp it yet. The only explanation he can find for this in his worn-out mind is that he was possibly hit very hard on the head, and will recover the information soon enough.
He squints against the white sunlight. He sees a gull swoop down in a graceful arc.
'Help me!' he wants to cry at the gull. However, his mouth parts and an empty exhale brushes past his lips.
He staggers against the pole and sinks.
So what if he's got the door open? It does nothing.
Aeron leans his head against the cold, hollow metal and cries. His tears are small and without heat. He draws sticky, shallow breaths. It is silent, as always.
An idea flickers across his mind, like a nightmare: what if there are people on the ship?
He doubts a boat would carry a single person like him. There must be cargo…and people.
Aeron tries to wrap his lips around a bite, a word. He slaps the broken pieces of his mind together and struggles to connect a term that hasn't been used in two years. In his brain, he relays countless situations, countless conversations, countless sentences. The word rings and throbs in his head. Slowly, his vocal cords try to replicate it. In the end, he is left with an uncertain vibration and a tired, tired mind.
"Help!"
It's only one word, yet it squeezes and tightens his throat.
The word resonates in his head, fills his limbs and mouth with old vibrations. It builds and pushes at his tongue, shoving its way out in a mangled, used cry.
"Help!"
It's been too long. His mouth is sore and his throat burns. He slumps against the pole. He can't. It hurts.
The door throws itself open.
Aeron knows that isn't the wind. Through dry tears and white, white light, he sees the silhouette of a hand.
SUBMITTED TALENTS:
- Ultimate Palaeontologist
- Ultimate Jazz Musician
- Ultimate Experimentation Tester
- Ultimate Back Alley Doctor
- Ultimate Weather Forecaster
- Ultimate Debater
- Ultimate Anatomist
- Ultimate Baker
- Ultimate Environmentalist
- Ultimate Podcaster
- Ultimate Mountaineer
- Ultimate Internet Personality
- Ultimate Contortionist
- Ultimate Glassblower
- Ultimate Investigative Journalist
- Ultimate Super Sentai Fan
- Ultimate Consulting Detective
- Ultimate Linguist
- Ultimate Cave Diver
- Ultimate Bank Robber
- Ultimate Runway Model
- Ultimate Historian
- Ultimate Bowler
- Ultimate Occupational Therapist
- Ultimate Private Investigator
- Ultimate Sociologist
SUBMITTED GENDERS:
Male: x14
Female: x12
SUBMITTED NATIONALITIES:
Japanese x20
Japanese/Welsh (mixed) x1
Japanese/American (mixed) x1
Canadian x1
English x1
American x1
African American x1