The Pirate and the Soldier Boy

Chapter 10

Carmen hung head down in the morning sunrise, lips blue, chapped, and bleeding, face red, and fingers white. Her legs shook as they tried to support her, but slid on the snow so she was almost sitting on the ground, neck and wrists holding her weight. Rotten fruit and thrown snow dotted her person, and her neck and wrists were bruised and covered in welts from the rough metal and wood of the stockade.

Half delirious with cold she muttered to herself, dreaming again. She dreaded the onset of night, when the temperature would drop even lower. She shivered weakly. What a rotten lot in life. This made her laugh in her muddled state as she had another moldy apple lobbed at her head.

She tried to rest as the moon rose, but there was no escaping from the punishment she bore. No rest for the wicked. Kneeling dejectedly on the ground she muttered to herself. As the weak words escaped her dry throat, she heard another soft voice join in, agreeing with what she said, turning the musings of a madwoman into a almost intelligible conversation. She ignored the voice. A heavy jacket was draped gently over her shoulders. Ignore it. Soft lips touched her cheek, lips she knew. Lips she had kissed once before. Ignore it. She shook her head to remind herself. That hadn't been real. Lips that she had seen form words every day for months, hearing the voice that sang quietly near her ear. "What to do with a headstrong sailor? Treat them nicely and tell them we will take care of them." The voice paused. "I know those aren't the lyrics, but it's a stupid bar song anyway. I'll figure this out, Carmen."

Ignore it. You're just Crazy Carmen. Daydreamer Carmen. Cold Carmen. Sing, sing, sing, don't listen to the hope. Delusional Carmen, mad Carmen, hopeless romantic Carmen. Sing, sing, sing. A friend didn't come. She had no friends. She'd forgotten about that. Sing until morning, sing so your voice is gone, sing so you ignore the cold. No one to call her nicknames and say she was amazing. No friends, no friends for Carmen. Sad Carmen, crazy Carmen, wishful Carmen, left in the snow Carmen.

As she hung in the stocks, her mind recollecting all this, her broken train of thought in a still muddled brain, she couldn't help but think: Dead Carmen? Was she dead? She could barely feel anything. Surely that's what being dead would feel like. And the cold that came before it, the confusion, the mocking and scorning and fruit thrown against her face. Those must have been Hell. She was dead, she decided. That was the only explanation. But why was she moving? The wooden and metal torture device the devil must have locked her in was being undone, and she crumpled to the ground, muscles not working. They must be taking her to Heaven now, she supposed. Maybe that strange angel from last night put in a good word. Then Carmen remembered. She didn't have any friends. No friends for crazy Carmen.

They set her on a hard, dirty floor, and she almost slept, slept in the warm room. The room that still sucked the heat out of her, but seemed so warm. The door must be spokes of the wheel carrying me away, for the bars spun and swam in her vision.

The strange angel came back, but now she knew he wasn't real, and she knew she was crazy. His brown hair was beautiful but choppy, and she liked it. His handsome face was worried. She didn't like that. He wasn't wearing a jacket, and she remembered he had given it to her. She tried to tug it out from under her and hand it back, but it got stuck and her arms couldn't pull hard enough. He rejected it. He scooped her up off the ground and slipped her arms into the too big sleeves. He held her in his lap, hugging her close to his chest and sharing his warmth. For an imaginary angel he had quite a bit of it. Muttering to himself slightly panicked, he pulled her closer, rocking back and forth on his knees. He muttered too. Maybe he was crazy too, Carmen thought. Crazy Angel for crazy Carmen. Her eyes slid shut and she smiled. Warm Angel holding her close. Putting the jacket around both of them so no heat would escape the little carriage they rode. Placing a hand by her mouth, fingers on the side of her neck. Shaking her slightly. She wanted to play this game with him. It seemed fun. Worried Angel. She wanted to tell him she wasn't worried. He shouldn't be worried either. She wanted to open her eyes and play the game with him. But he wasn't playing the game either anymore. Why was he so worried? She had been laid on the floor again. It no longer felt warm. Hands were pressing hard on her chest, rhythmically. She wanted to tell her crazy Angel she didn't like this game quite as much. It hurt. But her mouth wouldn't open. Something opened it for her mouth, sealed itself over, and breathed. She could feel her lungs move. But not much. Funny, she couldn't remember her lungs moving for a while. And she could barely even sense her angel anymore as he continued the rhythm game. At least now she would be able to sleep some as their little grey carriage drove on.