Woman Overboard

Chapter 7 : Loneliness (1)

Alessandra

August 26th, 1820

(6:44 PM)

While down the hall, her crew and Afiba's mourned their recent and former losses, (From Aless's crew: Christopher, Tommy, Aaron, and Jude; from Afiba's: Charles, Paki, and Stan) Alessandra laid in bed as still and silent as a dead woman.

Her shoulder and neck throbbed, her knees ached, and her eyes stung. Her head thrummed with pain, and her stomach clenched with nausea. Edward had begged her to come to dinner and say a few words for their lost sailors, but the idea of being social, of speaking, seemed impossible to her. Aless's feet felt like bricks, her tongue, like lead.

It had taken several hours and a slew of questionable drugs to calm her down after she shoved Adrian Williams' charred body off the plank. According to Parris, the wound on her neck and a reopened cut from the first fight with The Hampshire had become infected. He said she had probably been experiencing a feverish delirium when she murdered Captain Williams, and therefore could not be held accountable for her actions.

Even so, she couldn't escape the sinking guilt in her stomach. She couldn't remember any of his pleas or excuses -- just an incredible wave of bloodlust swelling inside of her, washing away any empathy or compassion she might have had lurking in her heart. Somehow, she couldn't blame her fever for this.

Aless blinked at the ceiling, a feeling of thick despair settling over her. It happened every so often since Danny had died: she would be thinking of something, usually in bed, and turn her head to ask Daniel what he thought. She would realize all over again that he was gone forever, and the imaginary warmth she had invented for him beside her would disappear.

In moments like these, her loneliness smothered her like a thick blanket, trapping air in her lungs and tears in her eyes. She would see his face in her head and think of how she would give over anything: her crew, her honor, her country, anything, for just one more kiss. She would have handed over the world if Death was willing to accept it, just to touch him again.

A knock at the door pulled her out of her sorrow. Aless tried to sit up, but could only wince and lay back down again. She then tried to speak, but only managed to whimper.

The door opened a crack, revealing a man with a face dark as a shadow and hair like a black cloud around his head. Aless didn't remember his name but knew he was one of Afiba's best friends and a skilled swordsman. Earlier that day, she had seen flashes of him throughout the battle, weaving in and out of skirmishes with an expression of complete calm. She had been both impressed and confused by his apathy but found it to be an admirable quality, all in all.

He hesitated in the doorway. "Ahoy," he said. "Can I come in, ma'am?"

Aless blinked at him, unsure of what to say. Managing to lift her heavy tongue, she said, "I suppose so."

The boy (he couldn't have been more than nineteen) stepped inside and closed the door behind him with his hip. In one hand, he carried a plate; in the other, a wineglass. She watched warily as he set both down on Afiba's empty nightstand.

He drew the desk chair up to the bed and sat down, close enough for Aless to see the seam of stitches snaking from his neck under his shirt. Aless tried again to sit up but laid back down in defeat a second later. She settled for turning her head to the side, squinting at him. "Remind me your name?"

"Durojaiye," he said. "But e'erbody calls me Jaiye."

Aless nodded. "Very well, then. Jaiye it is."

Jaiye cleared his throat. "I, uh, I brought ye some dinner. Di'n know if you'd be hungry, but I figured I'd try. You was lookin' a li'l pale, Miss."