The End

[Found on tattered pieces of paper, packed into a corked wine bottle, washed ashore and buried in the sand long ago.]

I do not know how long it's been since the last one left, since I've been alone.

At first, I kept track of the days. When the First Mate and the Quartermaster, looking back at me and my ship with a look of defeat from their small boat, disappeared into the fog forever, I scarred the inside of my cabin door with a cross; and another cross followed for each day. After some time, however, I stopped marring my door and the world sank into a timeless dusk. I thought, instinctively, that it must be some trick of the sea or the fog, but after what felt like weeks I was sure, despite my sense, that day and night had ceased; the world grew neither brighter nor darker.

“Which came first?” I still wonder. Had the death of days taken with it my desire to keep some track of time? Honestly, I cannot remember. Was it I who lulled time into its slumber by my surrender of effort? Have I really come to a place where I would accept that as a plausible reality? The worst of it is that I believe it doesn't really matter.

It has become more than unbearable. All I've known is the weight of my solitude and of the fog. The damnable fog. It came one day, slowly at first; nothing to take any note of. Quickly, though, we noticed it was not natural. Rather than fade away with time, it grew heavier. It is the kind of fog that envelopes you, that makes it hard to breathe, that makes you feel alone even when a friend is within arm's reach. I think it was the fog that was the breaking point of what men I had left. We had already been demoralized, lost, and restless. The fog was just too much for them. It made some lethargic, hardly able to get up out of their cots. In others it instilled panic; talk of ghosts, demons, and devils soon became common. The ones it had the greatest effect on, however, were those of the strongest constitution-- my First Mate, my Quartermaster, myself. The fog seemed to solidify a worry that had been in the back of our minds for some time: something was very wrong.

They say that the captain stays fast with his ship through still and storm; but what about fog? Endless, suffocating, disabling fog. It is a proud and admirable thing for a Captain to go down with his ship; but what is it for a Captain to be imprisoned on his ship? Foolish? Unnatural? No, it is Hell.

With no one to talk to, I've made friends with the figurehead, Mercedes. At least once a day (or what feels like a day) I carry myself and a bottle of wine up over the bow and I sit with her. I ask her if we shall ever get through this fog. I beg that she promise we will someday make port again. She says nothing and keeps her eyes ever forward. She listens patiently to my contemplations of jumping overboard or hanging myself from the foremast. Silently, she assures me that she will think no less of me no matter which decision I make. At least once a day, I carry myself and an empty wine bottle down onto the deck, no longer sure if my inaction is a sign of strength or weakness.

If I were to jump overboard, I would somehow land back on the deck; I know it. If I were to throw myself off the foremast, rope tight around my neck, I would only awake with a start in my bed. It's pointless to even try.

I have come to a place where wine no longer gets me drunk and water will not make me sober. I've eaten food enough for an entire crew, not once feeling full, and I've fasted continually, yet hunger never came. The sails no longer catch the wind, the waves no longer rock the ship. As time goes on, or doesn't, the fog grows thicker around me and inside of me. It is in my lungs, in my blood, in my heart. Soon there will be no telling any difference between the two of us. I cannot reasonably expect that any eyes but mine will ever set themselves on this ink, but I've nothing else to do. For my own sake, I must write this down and hope against hope it is found. I've heard it said that captivity that is shared is but half captivity. The idea that my story will be shared is the only source of comfort I shall have again, to whatever my end.

Author's Note

Took a bit to go over my first rough draft and make some edits and revisions. Still a very fresh idea and nowhere near taking the form of a completed work. Still, feedback and criticisms are very welcome!

Reviews

[Christoph Poe]

I wanted to return the favor. Thank you for reviewing my opening chapter.

You're writing is amazing actually. This intrigued me but I also noticed that it's a few years old. I think you need to come back to this, and polish it up. I also want to see more dialogue. What appears to be an and ensemble of imagery could easily be told with some conversations. A wise writer once told me that a good novel will consist mostly of dialogue.

If you decide to come back to this, be sure to tag me and let me know. I'd love to read more.

[Christopher Angel]

Melancholic, depressing, oppressing, tragic, mysterious and full of despair. I loved it thoroughly and read every word. I would change nothing. It is perfect the way it is - even the length. It had good pacing and the descent into despair was gradual and written perfectly.

Awesome job!