Empty Wound
“I like to think I tell good stories. Full of ‘venture an’ action. Romance n’ the like, for the older fellows. Stuff you’d ‘ear from any other soldier, but you know it ain’t all shit ‘cause it’s me sayin’ it. Lycans never tell lies, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise!”
“I’ve got the memory to back, to boot. I can tell you the name, profession, history and skill of every woman I’ve been with. I remember the words to every song I’ve heard.”
“I remember the looks on the faces of my lovers when I left... I know the look on the face of every man I’ve killed. I can’t forget the last words of past crew: some pleading for help, some for mercy.”
“I can recall what I had for lunch hundreds of years ago, is the point I’m trying to make- ham, swiss, onion, and pineapple with mustard on rye; rum n’ cigar on the side.”
“So... why is... this?”
Larrett seemingly awaits a response from his reflection as he gently clutches the stump of his arm. His mind runs circles trying to put it together.
He was in port for the month, completed with a guard tasking for a small merchant vessel. The owner was thankful for the short notice on service and treated the crew of Larrett’s vessel, The Sea’s Call, to a night on the town.
Liquor and lovers. He remembers having a pale ale, a pound of pork and a thin middle-aged courtesan named “Victoria”. Good night all around. He was headed downstairs after his shag to check the bounty board for future taskings...
And then he woke up on a rock somewhere, stranded in the ocean with smoke still in his lungs and no sign of life beyond himself. His arm was gone, the wound cut jagged through his elbow; cauterized. It was roughly an hour before sunrise.
Larrett calmly meets the gaze of his reflection, finding panic in his eyes.
