A film of oil floats on the surface of the water, a greasy rainbow, and
the dull lapping of the tide echoes thickly in his head. Memories of
voices: " Ours... ours... ours..."
Maybe this time—but no; hope is a trap. A beautiful lie, just like
her. Just as empty. Useful, sometimes, and dangerous.
The metal echoes under his boots; metal stairs, metal walls.
Hollow-sounding and impenetrable. If not for the bone-deep dampness he
could be in North Dakota. Again. Better there than other places he
dreams of.
Better not to think at all. Remember nothing. Feel nothing. Do what
needs to be done.
Easy.
Easy. Maybe this time he won't be tortured in the name of someone
else's truth. He can't afford another pint of blood in exchange for his
next breath. He's already frozen; he has nothing to spare.
"[I've brought you water. Can you hear me? If you can hear me, I need
you to nod your head.]"
He'd been blond as a boy. He'd been a boy once. Hadn't he? The water
runs over the pale, upturned face; gutters in the stitches.
"I'm going to take good care of you."
Taking Care
by Speedo
The walls are sweating cold. It smells of salt, iron, rust. Old death,
long-decayed, and the promise of future pain. The ship sings with it.
