Page 24 of If I Go Down with This Ship

Ducking my head in thanks, I cross to a small table at the back of the cabin.I dip my ink-stained hands into the water and watch as it tints blue, then black, darkening with each second I leave my hands submerged.

The act reminds me of when I first moved to London nearly a decade ago and dated an artist, Blake.They were one of those philosophical sorts, with long shaggy hair and a septum piercing that made them somehow more mysterious yet easier to approach.They taught me a lot about myself, how I had never truly opened myself up for my art or stopped to quiet the noise in my head.They smeared paint with their hands and limbs, expressing themself through their emotions, movement, and colors, and I walked in on them painting one night when they hadn’t heard their phone ringing.

I’d offered to leave, but they asked me to join instead with that devilish grin.And I did.They helped me out of my shirt and socks, and I dipped my hands and arms into the buckets of paint, laughing and screaming as I threw myself at the canvas.And when it was done and Blake was satisfied with our work, they’d pushed me back into the canvas and kissed me, both of us doused in paint.

“What emotion is this?”I’d asked.

“Lust.Longing.Happiness.”

Now I clear my throat, rocking back on my heels as I scrub my hands.It had taken meweeksto get the paint off.It caught in my hair, under my nails.Down there.As I stand in front of this makeshift sink, I wonder where that younger, morecarefreeLaszlo went, when he became so terrified of trying new things, of letting go and falling in love.

But then I tastehisname, feel that pressing betrayal rising in my throat like bile on my tongue and force it down, refocusing on my hands.Julian did this to me.Or rather, Ilethim do this to me, break me apart, tear me to shreds, and force me to pick up the scraps after he ruined everything.I grab a bar of soap left off to the side and rub it between my fingers.The scent is overwhelmingly familiar, and I pause, considering it.

Making sure Captain Night isn’t watching, I bring it to my nose and inhale.It smells like sugar and oatmeal.It’s a part of his scent, just a piece of him I smelled on his coat, but it’s almost mouthwateringly sweet.I relax a little as I work away at my hands, and then my face.When I’m scrubbed raw and it’s clear nothing more will come of it, I pat my hands and face dry and turn to go.

But he’s untucking his shirt from his pants, admiring the view from his windows, entirely unaware of what the action does to me.The moonlight casts him in a single spotlight, and though I know I should leave, I don’t want to.I want to stay in this moment forever.

“Best be heading off to bed,” he says, his voice softer than before, as if he can sense me watching him.

I clear my throat.“Y-yes, Captain.”

It takes everything in me to move, and I cross around his desk, hurrying toward the door.“Laszlo?”Hand gripping the knob, I peer back at him.He’s still angled away when he says, “Sleep well.”

Frowning, I cross the threshold and close the door behind me.

But sleep does not come easily.I toss and turn, and it feelslike I’m burning up from the inside out, my clothes clinging to my sweat-slick skin.What I thought were nerves is something else, because my stomach is not happy.

The sway of the sea was a bit sickening while standing, but the back and forth of the hammock only worsens the growing knot in my stomach.Back and forth and back and forth it goes, and try as I might, the feeling won’t go away.

I make myself as small as possible, scrunching up into a ball, knees pulled to my chest, trying to fight the roiling in my gut, but it only grows as the night stretches on.I don’t know how much longer I can push this off, but it doesn’t take long for acid to burble up.

The day crew is sleeping soundly as I scramble past them, fist pressed to my mouth as I try to keep the vomit at bay.Some of the night crew chuckle as I run up the stairs and to the railing just in time, vomiting up last night’s stew over the side of the ship.Gripping the railing and sliding down until I’m crouched, I wipe a shaky hand over my mouth.

Waves crash against the side of the ship, the wood creaking and groaning beneath me.How do people become accustomed to this?How do you spend your days teetering about on a wooden vessel in the middle of the sea?

Just the thought sends another wave of nausea through me, and I moan in protest, curling my fingers around the railing as if that will keep the sickness at bay.My eyes go to the water, to the roaring waves.There is an engulfing darkness just beyond the ship,surroundingus, and I have no way of knowing what lurks beneath the surface, what’s waiting for us in those dark depths.

“Overactive imagination there, Laszlo,” I say.

It’s nearly pitch-dark except for the silver light of the moonpeeking out from between clouds and shining across the expanse of water.I try to focus on it, try to zero in on the crevices and shadows across its surface, but it’s no use.I’m up and retching over the railing once more, groaning as I stumble back and plop down on my knees.

“I’m not made for the sea,” I murmur, pressing my forehead against the wood.

“It gets easier,” a familiar voice says.A hand touches my neck, cool against my feverish skin, gentler than should even be possible.“You’d think you’d be accustomed to it, seeing as you’ve been hiding on board for some time, but it takes some longer to adjust.”

I want to see who it is, to confirm my wild thoughts, but I can’t seem to push off my wobbling knees.I’m certain I have nothing left in my stomach, that there can’t possibly be anything more, and yet I feel the bile rising in my throat, feel my body give up and into it.Lips puckering, I struggle up on unsteady legs, a rough, warm hand catching my elbow as I teeter before leaning over the railing and retching into the sea once more.

Another hand rubs large circles into my back in the space between my shoulder blades, soothing and calming me, and for a moment, I let myself sink into the touch, my body going limp as the seawater mists over me, cooling my hot skin.

He drops his hand from my elbow and smooths away the hair clinging to my forehead, fingers cool and calloused against my skin.“You’re burning up.”

“Am not,” I mutter, the words coming out more slurred than intended.

He chuckles in my ear as his strong arms haul me the rest of the way up, one going around my shoulders, the other tightaround my waist and settling against my ribs.I’m sick and delusional, and I feel like I’ll never stand on my own again, but I find solace in his hand against my ribs, the gentle way he grips me, not hard enough to cause any discomfort, but enough to make me feel safe.Secure.

It’s been so long since anyone has held me like this.

“Come on,” he says against the shell of my ear, the resonance of his deep voice making me shiver.“Let’s find you somewhere more comfortable to rest.”