Title: A Sinner's Uprising
Author: PenM (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Summary: It may kill him, and Will knows it probably already is, but he's done what he's wanted to all this time. How come he's not happy about it?
Disclaimer: Am not mouse. Am farthest thing from mouse. Woe. Despair.
Author's Notes: Part four in a series of vignettes. Part One - Lost and Bound, Part Two - Pathway to Hell and Part Three - A Saint's Downfall. Hopefully it's not getting too repetitive. Grr. Argh. It's getting harder and harder to write these things without being all cliché. I've attempted something else now. So yeah. Just. Yeah.
Right then. I did it.
I bloody left Captain Jack Sparrow.
If I wasn't in such a foul mood, I would have appreciated the expression on his face. You don't often surprise Captain Jack Sparrow, you know. He looked like I just slapped him with a dead fish. But then he recovered quickly.
"What do you mean?" he asks glibly, toying with his baubles.
"I can't... do this. You know what I mean, Jack, don't play coy. I can't do this. It's killing me and I'm sorry for it and I know you're sorry for it and I don't know what else to say but I know you know what I mean and I'm done."
I turned around, and walked right out. It might have taken me everything, but I did it.
I suppose I expected to feel ecstatic, really happy, you know? But I don't; I feel empty, sort of confused, and a bit sad. As if there's something missing, like. I know I had just done what I had wanted to do, all this time. But it seems just like I just severed myself from everything I knew. All I could see was his face when I closed my eyes.
My mind tells me one thing, and my heart something different. What do I want?
I may not know anything else, but I know I'm safe for now...
Jack isn't the kind to toss someone offboard simply because they left him. No, he is much too intelligent for that; honest and loyal men are hard to come by. The value of honest and loyal men is more than that of gold.
I joined the others to dine; he was at the head there, swilling his rum and laughing heartily. His drink leaves gold all along his skin. There are bite marks on his neck, and I know there are half-moon crescent markings all along his back. There are bruise-blue shadows beneath his wicked eyes, testimony to long sleepless nights. I have not left; I am still there.
He drinks his rum and meets my eyes squarely, with a bit of a wink and a knowing half-smile. I frown.
Jack loves his treasure well. Too well.