Broken

1915

Nights aboard the Saxon Prince for the man, involve dreams of shadows constricting him like snakes, pits that swallow him up, sweet voices with an undercurrent of anger whispering in his ears. He feels eyes watching him always, throughout the days while he carries out his tasks, even when the sea sprays his face as they ride the crest of a wave and his hands strain to hold the ropes tight. But when he sits down after a long day, thoughts of his family, his daughter, obscure the world around him and the shadows stay hidden where they're supposed to be: in the corners, under tables, chairs. And now, after nearly a year being out at sea, traveling country to country, away from home, from his family, they leave France, bound for England with the rising sun that dispels all darkness.

The crew had stayed a few days, unloading supplies and troops from America. Throughout their days and nights onshore, his crewmates went into town, had the fun they can't onboard when they're out at sea in the middle of nowhere. The man though, remained on the ship, sitting on the dock, listening to the water lap against the sides of the ship softly, staring out at the horizon as though he could see England and the girl waiting for him.

The Saxon Prince docks in England just a few days later, to load more supplies which they'll take with them on their next journey across the sea, to Canada. But they get a few days onshore, meaning home and family for many members of the crew.

The man steps off the ramp, bag slung over his shoulder, takes a train and cab. The girl waits for him on the doorstep, Maggy sitting beside her. She shrieks with joy when he opens the gate, shouting, "Papa!", and runs at him, arms outstretched, Maggy flying from her hand. He scoops her up, regardless of the shadow that sails along the ground beneath the doll. He swings her round, holds her tight as tears stream from her eyes and she laughs.

His wife runs out of the house and joins them, the three of them gathered together, Maggy making them four, being squeezed between them, gathered in the shadows made by their bodies. But the warmth they feel, the light they create, filters it's way into the dollhouse of Maggy's mind, through the cracks between the boards that seal the windows, reflecting off dust motes floating in the air, burning shadows who lounge around.

The family goes in the house, the girl's aunt cooks him a meal. He tells them of his adventures across the sea, the storms they conquered, the countries they saw. He doesn't tell them of the constant fear that they'll meet a German boat, of his constant paranoia that he's being watched. The girl tells him of school, her summer, her games with Maggy. Her aunt chips in, telling him how lucky she is to have avoided catching the flu from her children, despite sharing a room with them for many months.

That night the little family goes back to their own house, spend the few days he has with them there, and all is peaceful, quiet, bright. Maggy often sits in the room with them, watching with her dark eyes glowing, her red tears glistening in the candlelight, smiling almost sadly.

And too soon the happy smiles are gone, with the little girl clutching her father's arm, tears tracking their way down her round cheeks, shimmering in her pale blue eyes. He hugs her once more, Maggy lying between the crook of their arms, and then he's on the ship again, waving, sailing away towards the horizon.

Once again days pass, weeks, months. The girl's mother works in the factories now, manufacturing munitions, supplies for the war effort. They receive letters regularly, the girl returns to school. She continues to share a room with her cousins. They don't say anything when they hear her cry herself to sleep, when she whispers to Maggy, "I miss papa..."