The SPAN of the SEA

.II.

I'm cautious to take shelter underneath the shade. The Chinese castaway (or runaway) is still, and doesn't seem to be breathing. I wonder if he's dead, but my mother and brother used to sleep like that as well; so quiet you'd think that they just passed peacefully in their sleep, dreaming about a better home or better world to live in. Friend, I have a small confession: I'm scared of my brother. He holds power over me, a strange gripping power that I fear and hate. Neither of these emotions do I feel for this foreign man. He's still and quiet as a corpse, so why should I fear him?

Perhaps I should just throw him overboard...but that would be a waste of food; I could kill and eat him. He speaks Mandarin, but his strangely empiric face looks a little Mongol, now that I think about it. His face is clean of hair and he's also free of pockmarks from youth. His ribs describe emaciation, but I could see that a few days of eating would give them a river-like ripple, a current of bone beneath tan flesh. I hate how lucky he is. I hate how he's almost certainly wealthy, and how he had the nerve to live in a tiny little dory out at sea...

Then again, there's no clue as to how long he's been out here. Maybe he just set out a few days ago...but his body betrays that a long time had passed since his departure. It's proof to how sheltered his life must have been that he'd fight death even out in the middle of the ocean, that he'd have any hope to live in his terrible circumstances.

Agggh! I must rid myself of this hatred of everything! Of this man, this sea, the Honorable Carolyn, the sky, my brother, my life. It will drive me mad. I need to be optimistic, and think of what I will do when I reach shore...I need to pretend I'm sheltered like this man, who is possibly dead, underneath the homemade sun shelter.

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He's stirred.

It was a shock, because as you know, I was assuming he'd died. But his eyes snapped open the instant I stopped writing, like the scratching of my terrible pen had been a makeshift lullaby for him. He's probably been sung lullabies by the family servant for years, I'm sure. Don't mistake my tone for anger, friend; I'm more annoyed, and I'm annoyed because...I'm very, very hungry. So hungry I can hardly write.

Today, it's rumored that in some royal classes in the Second Continent own special machines that inject nutrients directly into their digestive tract. Only rumors, though...it's hardly an ethical thing to do to build machines that make up a person's humanity unnecessary...though I do know that there is an elderly scholar who doesn't breathe anymore, and instead uses a portable machine to do this for him. People say that he's able to focus more on learning now, but I don't see why he would be. Breathing doesn't need to be a conscious act.

The Chinese man is staring right at me, watching me write. His head is turned. There's a small, silver ring around his thumb, somewhat rusty. I'm sure that the concealed inner side of that ring is lined with diamond or ruby, or maybe some sort of religious rock that's so fashionable for the wealthy and pious this season. Or maybe it's some sentimental piece, given to him by the sister of his dead mother...who he's maybe never met. His face is blazing fierce. I wonder if he was an orphan and got adopted by a well-off, but childless, family. Maybe his parents are queers, or his father impotent.

He glares at me when I snicker at the thought, like he's insulted. It's eerie. I can't find the peace of mind to laugh when he's glaring like that.

The ocean laps up at the side of Honorable Carolyn, and she takes the waves beautifully, gracefully. I fear poor weather ahead...not because I can see it, but because I've gone so long on such easy breezes. Nature has a way of evening things out. Have I written about this already? I don't remember when I last ate...food would be wonderful. I suppose if I got hungry enough I could kill my shipmate. It's too bad he's in such poor spirits now, though; bad temper spoils meat.

-

Sun is setting, and the Chinese man has gotten up to explore the ship. He's shaky, since he's not used to walking (he just got off his dinky little raft-like boat a few hours ago), but it's like he's determined to show that he's just as strong as I, even going for a time with greatly limited movement. I'm too hungry to be offended, or even care. He's an idiot for wasting his energy. I know it's perverse, but I fantasize him falling down and giving me an open to swiftly kill him and cook his flesh; I swear, if I have to eat another rat...and he's found a rat. A nice rotting one. He looks pleased with himself and he seems to be trying to hide it from me, like he wants it all to himself.

I start stacking up logs for a fire, not because I'm eager for the rat, but because I want to let him know he's not going to hide stuff from me, especially food. Sneaky bastard. Or at least he thinks he is.

-

My moods have been fluctuating...I was just in hate of this man a few moments before, but suddenly, I realized that the rat I'd just eaten was the first meal for knows how long that I've had with another person. He has my gratitude. While I write, he insists on speaking in his language, demonstrating what a fluid command of Mandarin he possesses. I'm impressed. He could hardly walk, but speaks fine. We share a jug of water he found below deck, to my dismay, in a place I'd never thought to look; a recently evacuated rat's nest. I was too disgusted to touch it. I laugh (inwardly) at the thought that I could be more refined than this obviously wealthy man when it came down to the wire.

But, reader, I've been thinking; does refinement matter? Does sophistication and class matter? Why don't I abandon my qualms with uncleanliness and disorder, even when on this ship that's almost certainly doomed to...no, I can't say that about Honorable Carolyn. She's carried me well and far. But...I've lost hope in even living, reader. Is that why I carry my obsessive habits with me, even in this time of desperation? Am I able to think beyond my upbringing? Maybe I'm more dependent on my family and my old society than I thought. Maybe we all are.

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