SEASICK

I’m not sure how much time has passed since I have been met with the sweet embrace of civilization. Perhaps it’s been weeks or even months, long enough for me to forget what it feels like to walk on solid dirt and not the rocking wood of a boat. Though, now that my initial panic has been snuffed out, I can’t seem to care anymore. Not long ago I was weeping bellow deck with only the darkness to comfort me. But now...now I dread to admit I’ve grown rather fond of the lapping waves that lick up at me. I enjoy the air that leaves a salty thirst on my tongue. I love this loneliness, this silence that has become all I am and know. 

I don’t ever want to go back.

Not to where humanity lingers, forever an evil shadow ready to prey on the weak. Not to where I must sit at dinner tables and produce small talk. How horrid I’d find that to be now. 

No, I much prefer when I am met with the rare call of a whale or the small fright catching a glimpse of a shark brings. I rather admire the adventure that comes with being at sea. 

The trip was originally meant to be short, not even a month-long. I hadn’t taken a compass or map for the simple reason of finding myself more than capable of reaching my destination. 

A few days had gone by, then a week, maybe two, and I still had not hit land.

Panic had struck me then, a panging knife in my throat, blocking all cries and wails. I was lost. Me. I had no way to find my home. Every direction I looked, pivoting in circles for hours, provided miles and miles of dark, heaving water. 

I hated myself then. I hadn’t needed a crew. I knew how to sail the small boat, so why would I pay another for work I knew I could do just as well.

I had been a fool.

Or so I thought. 

Getting myself stranded was the best possible thing I could have done. I don’t need anyone. Not mama nor papa nor my ugly wife. Not a single soul is yearned for. 

I have eaten all the stored food a few days ago, but figuring out the art of catching the tropical fish was no difficult task. I proved to be rather handy with a spear. Water is no problem either since I am surrounded by it, though I sometimes find a corrupting darkness creeping into my vision before blacking out only for a moment. 

Sometimes I grow so terribly thirsty, so I drink, and drink, and drink. I fill my belly with that sour water until I am full and bulging at the seems. My stomach gets so swollen, that everything comes back up again. It burns my throat. And the cycle is repeated. 

I love looking up at the sun. When I find my skin getting cracked and angry with red, I simply dive into the sea. 

I know how to care for myself. I never want to return. This is where I belong. 

Though the day is something to simply yearn for, I can’t help but fear when night falls. Growling and creeping sounds follow me below deck. The monsters shiver in the dark, their teeth nibbling at my ankles as I sleep. I cover my ears against them, but it is no use because their clawed fingers pull my hands away. They breathe on my face, their breath reeking of something foul. The smell shoves itself up my nose and it pulls me to vomit. 

A great sweat and fever always overtakes me, and the demons laugh. They scratch at their faces and pour their blood on my chest, and it burns. It sizzles and stings stings stings. It hurts. 

And when the sun rises again, and I open my eyes only to find them gone. They hide because they know I am stronger than they are. They fear me just as I fear them.

I never want to return home. The sea is where I am free. I can’t help but prefer the loneliness that lingers here. And the never-ending thrum thrum thrum of the sea licking up at me.