A Pirate's Life For Me

Pain

Pain.

Bright, blinding, explosive pain.

It takes a while before I realize that I'm screaming.

It takes another while before I realize that I'm not the only one screaming.

"...your own place, girl!" The general is shouting, flailing his arms angrily at the girl from the dock as she falls to the ground with a thud, the vibrations from her body hitting the dock shaking up through my knees and into my shoulder, where the pain is originating from.

The fucking asshole shot me in the shoulder.

I mean, it's better than my head, but...

"Goddamn, what has happened to the bitches in this place?" The general snarls, waving his loaded gun around, face slowly flushing beet red, spittle flying from his gritted teeth. "A woman's place is never to defy a man!"

Something in me snaps as the girl cries on the dock, holding her elbow, knees curled up to her chest.

"Then she's done the r-right thing by d-defying you," I croak, swallowing the screams down to an occasional grunt, scrunching my face into a tiny ball to suffer silently.

There's a small beat of quiet, broken only by the waves slapping the shore beneath us and the shouts of the fisherman in the distance. The general stares at me, armor shining in the sun, black hair fading slowly out into gray, lining a halo around his angular yet pudgy face. I decide to continue. The best way to beat pain is pretend that it doesn't exist, right?

"I mean, l-look at that face." I have to stop to swallow hard and spit grit out of my mouth, recollect myself so my voice doesn't waver as much. "Th-that has 'asshole' written all over it."

I should've seen it coming, but the gun comes cracking down across my jaw faster than the general can get offended, the white hot barrel burning into my cheek, still smoking from firing his shot. I yell again, but he only laughs.

"Pardon me, General Fairlock. Might I have a word?"

A new bunch come stepping up from around the corner, dressed all right and proper, standing tall with cravats tucked into their shirt collars and pants pulled high on the waist. The one who spoke wears black leather gloves, which he pulls on as he waits. I scoff, ignoring my uneasiness.

"F-Fairlock? That's your name? That's th-the stupidest name I've ever heard. Y-You've even got black hair, how does that m-make any sense at all?" The general freezes, suddenly becoming stone, but the short man with the white cravat and leather gloves sighs and turns towards me, setting off in a brisk walk across the three yards between us. I watch him approach. The most his type will do is spit on me.

His fingers clamp down around my shoulder.

Fire ripples outward from his touch, racing inside me to the darkest corners of my soul, burning everything in a blazing inferno of agony until his fingers release me from their squeeze, and the pain dulls enough for me to see again.

"I'll have none of that, Mister Jewell." I'm too shocked to snap back. "General Fairlock, our word?"

They scamper to the sideline, whispering quietly, the general waving his arms like he's screaming. Arguing. The short man points back at me, but the general adamantly shakes his head.

My bounty can't be that high, can it?

"This is the boy I've heard so much about?" One of the three posh intruders scowls, nonchalantly examining her nails, long and painted red to perfection. "Supposedly, he's ruthlessly murdered thousands of pirates and multiple people of the king's court, but look at him. He doesn't look a day out of preschool!"

Day out of preschool? Excuse you. I'm the legal drinking age.

Her foot, encased inside of a shiny black stiletto, slowly turns my face from side to side. "Still, he has potential to make a great slave."

As hard as I can, I spit, watching the slimy glob of my saliva attach itself to my lips and splatter against her shoe and bare ankle. Instead of getting offended, she smirks and leans closer to me, shifting her leg apart in a provocative position.

"Kinky," she whispers, one of her hands raking through my hair, her nails leaving little trails of poison to fester on my scalp. "I like it."

The short man returns before the woman straightens.

"Rosalette," he sighs. "What are you doing?"

"Inspecting my prize," she purrs back. Her words are fairly possessive, tone as well, but underlying it all is a faint edge, a hidden challenge. She's challenging him to correct her.

Wait a minute, her prize?

"Do I look like a stuffed bear to you people?" I shout, channelling the pain from my cheek and my shoulder to keep my voice steady. "I'll k—"

The shorter man steps forward, his hand shooting out and back, leaving me to gag on the empty space where his fist had been.

"I don't appreciate your attitude, Mister Jewell. I hope you learn to control it by the time all is said and done."

I attempt to croak out a response, anything, but I can barely wheeze in air. The pain is making it hard to focus, dancing stars in my vision and blurring sounds in my ears.

"It was nice doing business with you, General Fairlock."

"Snotty pompous rich folk, always thinking they can get whatever they want with their money," the soldier snarls, pocketing a large and very full leather pouch. The tall man simply steps to me and hauls me up while the short man smiles his dismissal.

"What about the girl?" The general huffs. "What do I do with her?"

The short man turns, shrugs. "Dispose of her."

She flinches.

Okay, now that is fucking it. Will everyone leave this goddamn girl alone?

I drop to my ass, pulling Spindly off balance, pushing him over into his friend the Sadist. They go down in a tumble, and I dart forward directly into the mass of soldiers panicking into a semi-organized clump to combat my escape. Thankfully I don't have to go far, but as soon as I'm knee deep in armor and plumes my legs give out for real and I fall heavily onto the deck.

Blinking myself awake, I watch the General curse at the empty dock, glaring daggers where the girl had once sat. I smile. At least now we're even. I turn my head the slightest bit and catch the short man staring at me, moving forward slowly but surely, tightening his leather gloves. My smile fades.

"Good," he says softly, winding his leather fingers into my hair, pulling my head an inch or two above the dock. Against my will, I shiver, icy wind travelling down my spine at his touch. My skin crawls at his smile. "You've already learned to be afraid."