Stupid, stupid stupid.

I stood just out of sight of the brig for the third time since I’d told him he could keep his life tonight. Every time I walked away, it would only be a matter of time before I thought I heard a creak or a crack or a crash that meant I had made a deadly mistake. But every time when I returned, he had not moved. His head was still leaned against his arms behind his head, in the hay. His eyes were still closed. There was still that contented smile on his face, the sight of which made my feelings toward him even more complicated. Every time I worked up enough fear to rescind my mercy, it took one mere look at him to know I wasn’t capable of doing so.

The state of all this was making it impossible for me to get any work done. I was back and forth across the ship, until finally I could stand it no longer. With musket in hand, I stepped out of the hatch and onto the top deck of the ship. The sun had finally got the good sense to rise again, but I still did not feel safe. I sat down cross-legged in front of the hatch. And I sat. And I sat. And I stared.

I knew I needed to go down there again. I needed to eat. I needed to check the last two hens. But what if I went below deck and he had escaped, now prowling among the cargo like a wild animal? What if I had set myself up to be the perfect prey? My leg began to bounce.

What a silly girl I was. Truly, what had I been thinking? Why had I let my feelings get the better of me? That guilt, that sympathy, those had to be weaknesses. Whatever part of me had been overcome by nostalgia and put on the dress (which I had shed now, almost in shame), whatever part of me had been weakened by his stories—I needed that part of me gone or I was certainly going to die.

And yet, could I truly look him in the eye again and pull that trigger?

. . .

I did not think I could.

“Stupid,” I muttered to myself, and shakily got to my feet. I daren’t go below deck now, I decided. I would have to eventually but not now. I was too tired. If he was loose he’d overtake me for certain. If I got a good night’s sleep, perhaps I’d stand a fighting chance. So, sleep it was.

Yes, I needed to sleep. If I was going to be useful at all, it would have to happen. I had wasted enough time. I had sat about for hours in anxiety and exhaustion. If I was to get a decent amount of sleep before sunfall, I had to do it now.

I took the musket with me to the captain’s cabin, as I always did. It had become a steady companion and I almost didn’t even think when I picked it up anymore. My arms felt light without it. If I could not see it, my heart pounded, even if I didn’t know why. I wondered—if I ever saw land again, could I leave it behind?

I laughed out loud at the thought—first at the thought of myself in the gowns I used to wear, only now with me carrying a full-sized musket. Then, the laughter grew more ragged as it changed, and I was laughing at the idea that I could even imagine seeing land again. Was I really still holding out? Was I really still hoping? The ever-growing bulk of me was becoming resentful of that hope. Hope stung more than hopelessness. It was hope that drove me to anxiety, to the leg-bouncing sleeplessness. It was hope that drove me to the desire to live, and that desire to live drove me also to kill.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

All that would go away, I thought, if I could just accept the fact that I was doomed.

And yet! And yet I could not sleep, out of fear. If I was afraid to die, then I also wanted to live.

I lay in the small bed, staring up at the trim on the ceiling. It was such a nice bed compared to the one that I had occupied as a passenger. I had slept well in this bed many nights before. But tonight would not be like that. I kept imagining him breaking through the floorboards, clawing his way through the tarred wood and then with blacked fingernails holding me still and sinking his fangs into my neck.

Every time I drove that image from my mind, it would only stay gone for a moment.

I tried to think of something else to replace the vision fully.

I imagined the carriage ride, the one that might have been the last I’d ever take. Every twist and turn of the road from my parent’s home to the harbor. I tried to remember passing each neighbor’s home. I tried to remember the town I had lived near my whole life, and the people who had stopped and stared as we passed, knowing where I was headed. I recalled the way the sun had speckled through leaves and the way we had passed pastures and crossed a little brook. We had turned left at a fork, though if you turned right you would continue a ways and eventually arrive at a home belonging to my father’s brother.

Bringing myself along on this journey quieted my mind somewhat. Sleep still did not come easily, but every time I began to find my fears returning, I started the journey over. I waved goodbye to my parents once again, I got into the carriage again, and we drove through the town and over the brook. I must have started over five times before I finally fell asleep.

And how long I remained asleep I do not know, but I awoke shortly after with a start. Immediately, I thought I must have overslept. I poked my head out of the door to see—the sun was only beginning to set. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I felt far from well-rested, but it was better than nothing. Picking up the musket, I stepped out into the dying sun and stretched. Then, my breath caught in my throat.

It wasn’t him. It was something perhaps a bit worse.

A flash on the horizon. Far off. Quite far off, and yet, it hadn’t been there before. I narrowed my eyes—then realized with chagrin that I needn’t strain. The captain’s spyglass was quickly retrieved, and I pointed it toward the troublesome spot where the sky met the sea, and I saw—

Yes, that was worse.

A storm.

My heart jumped. A storm? A storm! Where had it come from, and so quickly? What should I do, I wondered? What could I do? I didn’t know.

I had been in a storm once before on this journey and I remembered very little over it. I had spent almost the entire time sick in my bunk, bent over a bucket. But I didn’t have the luxury to spend this one the same way. In fact, I didn’t even have the luxury to live through it as I had lived the past few weeks, getting by on staying afloat and nothing more.

No, I had no choice now. I wagered I was lucky that I hadn’t shot him after all, for now I could be sure he was awake.

Yes, monster or not, he was still a sailor. And without a sailor I was nearly certain I hadn’t a hope in the world that I’d survive.