_I can't even begin to explicate how busy this week has been—I apologize for the late update._
So without further ado…
She lay there, painfully immobile in a sorrowful daze. She had gotten used to the incessant itching of the hay-filled mattresses of the ship. She had gotten used to the constant rocking that had primarily succeeded in making her vomit every time she stood, her legs violently quivering with nausea. She had gotten used to feeling cold and to the danger of the persisting storms that were excruciatingly common. She had gotten used to her meals of stale bread and salted meat. She even got used to the perverse crew of filthy, crass men. She could not, however, shake off the nightmares, the thoughts, the visions of her Tarrant.
Each day she would sit in the solitude of her private cabin and try to concentrate on the trade plans she was going to have to go through with. She knew that stress and exhaustion held hands with the complexity of her plans. She knew the pangs of regret's wrath that consumed her would inevitably sap her of energy and vivacity, her fading muchness.
She watched as green salt water trickle down the molded, wooden stairs, the remains of angry waves splashing over onto the deck. The once comforting sound of water had grown to be an annoyance. She was growing more bitter, too exhausted and irritated to conjure up new riddles. She already had enough problems to ignore, why add riddles to the list?
She sat up on her cot and reached out, blindly patting her fingers on her small side-table, grabbing a smooth candlestick as well as her matchbox. She fumbled with the matchbox, and plucked a match from the jumbled heap. Striking the tip against the molding surface of the side-table, her small cabin was flashed with vibrant orange light. She brought the dying ember to the blackened wick and the light strengthened. Blowing on the match, she watched the smoke rise, bring the familiar scent of fading sulfur. She grasped the candle, the soft flame casting dancing light on her pale skin, and fished a small mirror and comb from her side table's drawer, placing the candle on top. She kept the mirror face-down, on the dull sheets next to her. With her left hand, she reached around her neck and scooped her blond hair, draping the tangled curls over her left shoulder. Gently, she combed the ends of her hair, working her way up. She tried to suppress her sharp intakes of pain-induced breaths as she started to rip through the sea of knots. Her breathing grew faster, as relentless thoughts invaded her sanity. She continued this with more force, until she suddenly hurled her comb onto the damp floor, startling even herself. She looked, blankly into the darkened part of her cabin. Her shaking hands reaching for the mirror's silver handle brought her out of the trance and she tightly clutched it, bringing the gleaming back side towards her face. She took a breath and placed it under her pillow. She pushed herself up to the candle and softly blew it out and the dark engulfed her vision. The uncomfortable cot welcomed her back as the muscles in her body became dormant.
"Another day..." She whispered to the shadows.