Perspective

Across a table on the deck of his ship, Davy Jones and I sized each other up. We werent enemies in the strictest sense, too detached really to hate each other. We didnt need to meet but we were here, bored and curious, seeking a way to distract ourselves from the burdens that we carried.

He grasped the dice that lay between us with a hand that was withered and mottled and encrusted with decay. The dice rolled and we watched, again without much interest, and only a hint of concentration.

"I would give anything to be you"

The words surprised him. He looked into my eyes and he could see I meant it. Behind me he watched my home, spread out over a vast piece of land, he glanced at the jewellry that encircled my wrists and glinted at my ears. His eyes wandered over my body, young and healthy, smooth skin and tight muscles, pleasingly shaped. My feet, that could walk on land or on the decks of ships at sea whenever and wherever I chose, were what held his gaze. He did not understand.

I brought his hand to my chest, and held it over my heart. My heart, that screamed with every beat. My heart that was withered with pain, mottled with anguish and encrusted with longing, my blasted heart that wouldnt die of the deep wounds it bled from.

"My heart cannot be cut out and left on a beach, alone in its anguish, in puinishment of its betrayal, away from me."

The wind picked up, singing a sad song in mockery of our loving.

"I would give anything to be you"