Ch. 1: Before The Bleeding

Today, we head towards the North Sea—
Captain’s orders.
No explanation.
No questions.

The wind sharpens with each mile.
Every gust claws at us,
Every breeze breathes on us,
Each howling through the sails like a wounded beast.
Each fighting to clamp onto us,
These predatory winds.
But they fear her,
Her organic boards, which groan from neglect.
Her bullet holes masked as love.
Her maternal tenderness.
She eclipses them. Scares them.
But she can’t roar—not anymore anyways...
She croaks.
She groans.
She whimpers.
She’s in pain.

The ship, her face gleaming beneath a thin coat of ice,
All that ghosting,
She's covered in a rouge cloak.
Is she embarrassed?
Of the bruising,
Of the abuse,
Of this parasitic love.
Each dawn, if you look hard enough,
It drew fresh tears down her weathered cheeks.

Above, the clouds part like a breath held too long.
Heaven spills light on the sea—
a rare kindness in a cruel world.
It embraces her.
She’s so beautiful.
Her wooden Pinocchio body glistens in the sun.
It tells the tales.
She revolts: Dead men tell no tales.
But she speaks.

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

Around us,
each man entrenched in his parasitic hobby—
revolvers, rusted cutlasses,
drunk on the morale of violence.
The idea of rum.
Of food.
Of gold.
Of treasure.
This greed...

Why can't we all be sober?

But his steps ring of purification—
of prohibition.

The masts wrinkle under the weight of the wind.
But it isn’t the wind that changes us.
It’s him.

Each footstep commands the ship—
her body reshapes around him.
Boards tense.
Sails shudder.
The air straightens its spine.

And suddenly,
the men don’t laugh.
Don’t swagger.

They stand.
Like statues.
Like sons.

He stops at the quarterdeck,
eyes sweeping the frozen horizon.
The mist-heavy air draws into His lungs—
And when He exhales,
even the world exhales with Him.

His hat shifts.
The wind stirs the embroidered name:
Vexmoor.
Then it stills.
And silence follows.
Even the British robins above await His words.

His mouth moves.
I almost don't catch it—
But I need to,
He speaks in a sacred tongue:

“To the North we sail—
to the edge of frost and flame.
If you doubt it, drown it.
There is no room for fear on this ship.”

The man grasped his words,
nodding, accepting the course.
Each of us, a mouse on a wheel—
spinning, running, trapped.

The roots of this trust
were planted long before our birth—
domesticated, conditioned, unthinking.

While observing the frozen deck,
the captain—elegant, though never taught—
casts a glance our way.
With that royal gesture—
so distant, yet unbearably near—
he commands:

“Clean the deck as though it were a chapel.
Welcome the ice gods to her beauty.”

The second sting—
it ripples down my chest,
and finds my hollow heart.
It embraces me.
A clash of universes.
So distant,
so divine.

And still—
it calls to me.

Above, the clouds break apart—
the heavens pull my gaze away, as if hoping to divert my attention.
My eyes drift,
and they catch a starving kid.
They reach him—the only evidence of my existence—
Silas... he looks pale.
Distant.

Melancholy.

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

The truth is— we’re fragile.
And the captain?
He’s our spine.

But our thoughts—
They roam the ship, ghost-like,
Never daring to rebel.
But sometimes—
they take form...
Through arguments.

Where are we going?
Does He know where we're going?
Are we lost?
It's been too long.
It's unsettling.
It's unheard of...

Suddenly—this starving boy,
so lost...
His footsteps try to reach me,
but they fall short.
His body collapses in my arms.
Our starved eyes meet...
Given life—
by this reverend from the golden sun.

Carefully—
as if holding a crane fly,
I place his bodily paper tower on the railing.
Then both of us stare
at its warm brace,
as if time stopped.
This unintentional protest
against the captain—
it feels so good.

A soft, sharp chirp
from the British raven above.
We both look up,
entangled by the speaking clouds,
by this soft, gentle breeze.

Then—a fragile, coarse whisper leaves his mouth.
But I catch it easily.
I brand it into my memory:
"Calder—
I'm scared."

His bony hands rub at the paint of the railing.
"I don't think he knows—
The captain,
where we're headed."

Then he clutches the railing,
each bone showing its teeth.
"Ships lately—
they're reaching Davy Jones' Locker—
more than before,
more than ever."

He looks at me,
with that gentle gaze,
as if to ask for mercy:

“The British—every country—
their maritime laws,
their war mandates...
They force us to keep sailing.”

His frail arm grips my shoulder—
and he cries,
“I don’t think we’re going to make it.
I know we weren’t meant to go far,
But what if... what if we could?”

And suddenly, I reach for the back of his head.
We both close our eyes, our foreheads touching.
Guiding him, embracing him, speaking softly:
“Silas—
I promise, I will protect you.”

A soft smile appears on his face,
releasing some of the weight—
golden rays glistening across his wayward eyes.

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

Night approaches—
My task, complete.
I crawl beneath the stairs—
to hide, to distance, to stare.
The cosmos whispers... then screams.
Each star, a soul—
Howling between silver streams of space.

But then—footsteps.
Only footsteps.
A monotone creak with each one.
A man appears.
He walks toward me.
Shatters my silence.
Shatters my safety.
I’m trapped.
Cornered.
But that apron—white, stained, unmistakable...
It’s the chef.

I'm hidden behind barrels—shielded.
My feet sink into mournful white snow.
Exposed.
Arms wrapped tight to my chest,
I try to preserve what little warmth clings to me.
Moonlight spills across my skin—
ghost-pale.
The frozen air lifts the hairs along my arms.

It’s cold—the air—
but I don’t let it bite me under the stairs.
The snow is everywhere—
but I don’t let it gather under the stairs.
The cosmos plays—
but it forgets me,
under the stairs.

But the chef—
He mocks.
He eclipses the cosmos.
He laughs at my helplessness.
And then—
He reaches me,
under the stairs.

But it’s not his hands that reach first.
It’s his oral sagophicas—
his words,
his voice,
his smile...
That smile, etched into my memory.
That’s what defines him.
This ship—
it’s his paradise.
He’s too happy.
It’s not right.

His need feels contemporary.
His purpose? Simple.
Vital, even.
He feeds the morale of the bandits.
Keeps them human.
Keeps them in check.
And he dares to call it—
“a moral compromise.”

And the food he crafts?
If there is food...
It’s weak.
But it serves his purpose.

Not made with passion,
Not with care,
Not with love.

So—
what is it made from?

I can't feel anything from him.
It's all so manipulative.
So narcissistic.

Then his steps become clearer—
with each one, his smile grows more...
eerie.
Artificial.

It’s like rhetorical shears,
cutting away at your perception,
layer by fragile layer.

Until all you see is that unfaithful smile.
His narrative—so carefully painted—
it makes you question:
Can someone truly find a heart in this heartless world?

His foot reaches the stairs,
and he holds his pose:
one foot on the stairs, one on the ground.
His hands—rough, sharp—
his presence dormant by his side.

He bends down,
smiling ear to ear.

Then his seductive mouth whispers—
soft, sharp:
"Cold out here, isn’t it?
You should be in the galley—
where it’s warm.
Where you belong."

He pauses, still smiling.
Licks his lips, moisturizing his mask—
then continues:
"This ship’s no place for secrets.
Or strays."

My mouth opens,
but before I can speak—
it’s silenced by another sentence:

"Shh... You look so lost, so lost.
I have food, so much food—
food for you.
It’s in your best interest to follow me."

Demands fit for a dog.
But he lures me with food.
Where?
How?
Is it a lie?

I stare—questioning this man’s judgment, his intentions.
His beady eyes rest dormant, drilling into my soul.
Now he’s waiting for my response,
still smiling.

Seconds pass.

His patience thins.

He shouts:
"Boy... do you hear me?
Food. Warmth. Life—it's inside."
He stands tall—still smiling.

My mouth opens—
but no words leave.
I gulp.
I try again.
I whisper:
"I-I-I'm fine, thank you."

Disappointment—
Silence overtakes our conversation.
He stops smiling.

In the distance,
Silas appears...
Don’t come near this man.
But still—Silas appears:
Sick. Pale.
A whitish pale—bruised, yellowish, purple.

This pain...
It’s not scurvy.

The chef—Chef Bastian, if I remember correctly—lets that smile return.
But this time... it’s more real.
And somehow, that makes it colder.

His white, grease-stained clothing wrinkles with unease.
The wind pushes back his hair—his beard, too—
Moonlight casting a veil around him.
You can see the dense grey hairs hidden beneath what seems like black.

He walks—anxiously, passionately, happily.
As if he were starving.

It wasn’t a far distance.
But in those moments—I held my breath.
Was it confusion?

Then his hand wraps around Silas.
A hug?
Like a father.
Silas, the son.

And suddenly—
a hollow pit carves itself into my heart.

It’s confusing.
Maybe...
Was I jealous?

They leave.

The silence swells—
pressing in on me like the night itself.

I leave my safety—
I’ve played dead for too long.
There must be something wrong...
Something wrong with me.

I take long, desperate steps—
when the stars are gone,
when everything goes wrong.

Where will I go?
Will I keep playing dead?

Above,
the clouds cry—
a sorrow for the dead man.

I weep.
But no one notices.
Hidden behind the rain.

I’m so pathetic.

Save me.

Above,
I search for a star
that might look back—
just once.
To see a child
so disappointing.

But the only thing I see...
...are weeping angels,
hidden behind the clouds of heaven.

The wind picks up.

Save me.

Silas—

Who is this man?
Am I alone?
Where am I?
Am I real?

Why do I yearn?
Why do I whisper...

Save me...?

The light

I’ve never had a father.
Never a mother.
Not old enough to retain memories.

I wonder what it feels like—
a childhood.

The ship had a childhood.
She used to sail so smoothly.
The waters parted—obedient—
cut cleanly by her bow,
a command of effortless beauty.

So beautiful...
she attracted filthy rats.

They bit her.
Nested in her lungs.
Ripped out her heart.
Gnawed at her bones.

She’s hurting.

She’s sick.

She’s rotting.

And still—
they accused her of being faulty.
Never once taking responsibility.
They mock her...
yet they’ve never contributed a thing.

Parasites.
Mocking the body they infest.

I think...
maybe she’s jealous.
Of her sisters—
the ones who still get affection.
Who still get loved.

Moments pass,
and I open my watery eyes—
they move,
left to right,
searching
through for an orphanage of the damned.

But I say, with quiet confidence,
to her:
“My name is Calder. How are you?”

She responds—
she cries—
she breathes.

The ship cradles, left to right—
her pain is real.

The wind picks up—
her bones shake,
her face goes numb,
her skin shivers.

We stare.
Our hollow husks—
masquerading in the rain—
understanding,
acknowledging
each other.

The sun breaks the horizon,
and the weeping is disrupted.

Clear clouds,
open waters—
a pity lifted
from my heart.

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

The hallways—empty, bare—except for the thrashing waves that create noise.
It comforts me.
My stomach questions this comfort:
It’s the third day without food.

We’re starving—
and the chef has become more open, more social—likely due to spare time.
This lack of food makes us ask: Where are we going?
We’ve skipped ports.

Our hunger makes us wonder:
Are we even human anymore?
Like a compromise—unjust.

I look under my white shirt—rags—observing the lines.
My autonomy.
It’s my ribs—barely visible—
that make me question: if death ever caught me,
would I decompose... into anything less than I am now?

The ship creaks.

I notice two brushes and two buckets—
Silas must not be awake.

I salvage my share:
the dim, only light of my youth.
One brush. One bucket.

I fill the bucket with water.

My routine begins.

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

My routine ends.

It’s mechanical—my movements.
It’s uncertainty.
I coat my motions with mental rum—an artificial pleasure,
a narrative I need to create.

My muscles ache.
I flinch.
I weep beneath my skin.

I don’t know if I can take it.
I need to.
But why?

I have no meaning.
I have no need.
It’s simply:
How long until I break?

Each step back sends pain through me—
my shoulder creaks, grinding against bone.
But deeper than that, I feel it—
something’s wrong.
Something I forgot.

A weight on my heart.
A strange guilt, pushing at my soul.

Then, I pass it—bucket and brush—unused.
The upper deck, her beauty unpreserved,
her face defiled by rats nesting on her skull.

Silas—where are you?
It’s been hours...
I rush now, panicked by his sickness—
I was supposed to protect him.

Each step carries a melancholy melody,
and my shirt ripples through the air.

I’m running.
Uneasy.

The wind bites sharper now,
carrying whispers I don’t want to hear.

The surgeon passes by—Dr. Alwin Graye.
The deep shadows under his eyes remind me of my uselessness.

But I question:
A man so buried in his work,
yet he won’t spare a glance for Silas—
my brother, the only other trace of my birth.

My words stumble out—
barely more than growls, lost in breathless hunger.
He doesn’t hear.

I can’t afford his time—
not while my vision blurs
and my only fight is to keep Silas safe.

My ribs grind with each breath.
Sweat slides down skin gone dry and flaking.

I’m unraveling—
flesh and soul, both.

Each thought turns grim,
each step heavier than the last.

Silas—

Was that man protecting you?
Were you ever safe?
Where are you now?
Are you still real?

Do you still see me?
Why didn’t you whisper back?
Why didn’t you say save me?

I would’ve listened.
I would’ve—

But I was blind.
I chose to be blind.

And now—
the silence is louder than any scream.

And still, I run.