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Sunday (shh it’s not Monday be quiet), “S.O.S” (completed short story!)

no just because it’s midnight doesn’t mean it doesn’t count (need anymore negatives, angel? xp)

Here it is! Polished, shiny, and hopefully error-free, S.O.S, my first story for my Short Story Summer challenge, is officially completed! I’ve had such a blast doing this, and, although it isn’t excessively sci-fi-y, it forced me to step out of my comfort zone.

What I’ve Learned: hOly cow, exposition is hard in short stories. I do think that, at times, S.O.S suffers from a bog of exposition, but I really shouldn’t edit it anymore considering it’s already Monday,,, ;n;

Also, procrastinating is bad. I am so bad at getting things done it is 12:10 as I am writing this.

Finally, cinnabun characters are so perfect. Ta’hua is meant to be that kind of character, and, if I ever revisit this universe, I think I’ll either set the story in Ta’hua’s past or the life he lives with Ashley and, his now adopted brother, Sterling. >u<

Final Word Count: 5,336

Final Time Spent (Writing/Editing): 5 hrs and 33 minutes

And, now that I have teased the ever living hek out of you, enjoy reading S.O.S

Trigger warning: blood, implied death, suicide, slavery, cruelty, dead family

S.O.S

“S-Sani is dead.”

The words are whispered to Sterling. The young boy’s gaze flicks to the side, meeting the dull, but worried, eyes of his friend, Ta’hua. The young Avian’s head feathers droop in sadness, his hands shaking as he pushes his mop along the deck. Sterling glances down at his own motionless mop before replying.

“How? When?”

Ta’hua turns back to his task, replying quietly. “After br-breakfast. He ju-umped.”

Sterling swallows a lump in his throat. It hurts to do so. Suddenly, his ribs feel much more pronounced, the bags underneath his eyes much heavier. “I’ll look for one this time.” Sterling says. Shoulders sagging in relief, Ta’hua gives an almost imperceptible nod before directing his mop away from Sterling.

When he is sure that his friend is out of earshot, Sterling whispers to himself in a voice devoid of emotion, “Fourteen.” Sani marks the fourteenth body. Over four years, Sterling has slowly killed fourteen different slaves aboard this ship. In the beginning, it was almost impossible to ask for others for their measly food, for their blind labor. It has become so dreadfully easy. He feels little guilt when he begs the kind-hearted, the weak-willed, the elderly, the mothers, and anyone else, for food. No shame rushes him when he manipulates others. Now, it is more of an annoyance than anything else when someone dies, because it means that he has to find a new target. He knows that he should feel guilty, disgusted at himself, devastated, anything but the cool numbness resting in his chest.

But, quite simply, he doesn’t.

He used to amend his guilt by telling himself that he needed this food, that the meals given to the slaves aboard this ship weren’t enough for anyone. While true, it didn’t become true to him until two years ago. Up until then, he would shake in his cot nightly, going insane with guilt. With every person he starved, every innocent victim to his unholy crimes, the only face he could see was his father’s. His father, who only ate enough to make it to the next meal time, just so he could feed his son most of that, who whispered stories late at night about a forgotten life, who died of starvation because he cared too much about his son.

But taking advantage of his fellow slaves now? Easy. There weren’t many weak-hearted slaves on board, but sometimes, newer ones were easier to convince. They didn’t understand the truly horrible conditions, and, before they did, they already found themselves caring about Sterling and Ta’hua. They would begin to form a one-sided parental bond with the children. They would feed them. They would take part of their workload. They would eventually die for them. Sterling swallows another hard lump in his throat. It is no easier to swallow than the first.

He turns to look at Ta’hua. His head is lowered and his back is hunched over his mop. As usual, his body shakes with every step. Everything about him screams that he doesn’t belong on this ship. His sun-like eyes and vibrant blue and yellow feathers speak of island life. His stutter and quiet demeanor are far too delicate to survive on this ship. Every time Sterling looks at Ta’hua, he sees an escape from reality, the rebellious call to something long dead. The only spring blossom untouched by winter’s greedy kiss. A person worth sharing his food with.

A whip cracks over Sterling’s head, causing the boy to flinch. The sudden motion brings instant, fiery pain to the deep sunburns on his face, and he struggles to push back tears. Looking up, a slaver yells at him in a language he doesn’t understand. He stabs a clawed finger at his motionless mop, and Sterling realizes that he had stopped working. He pushes himself to move again. The whip snaps again, although, this time, fresh agony washes across his body. Sterling can no longer hold back tears as fresh blood drips down his back. The blood, at least, cools his burned skin.

Sterling has been watching a certain slave for about three hours now. He works on the hauling team, pulling the net full of diamonds from the bottom of the ocean. It takes a strong set of slaves, at least a hundred, to pull up such a hefty net. The diamonds, which are formed under the ocean’s immense pressure, are said to be worth more than diamonds on earth, due to their rather exotic formation underneath the Oilcean.

Sterling’s mother had educated him all about the Oilcean before they travelled to it. He remembers the wondrous tales she spun about the immensely deep ocean, filled with riches such as diamonds and oil. Every moment she spent with him was precious, simply because they were so rare. It was always his older sister who took care of him and his younger sister. It was she who would kiss them goodnight. Sterling can’t remember her name, her face, or even her voice. Just the warm, cherry-scented comfort of her arms. She loved cherry soap. He wondered where she is now.

He learned bits of Avian from his mother, for which he is immensely grateful. Ta’hua was also taught some basic English and, together, they have created their own language that is a mix between the two. He remembers his first words in Avian. It was a quick “hello” to the bird-like people who welcomed him onto the cruise ship. His mother had been so excited to board that ship.

Sterling blinks, and his mind clears. His back stings a reminder; thoughts have done him no good today.

Instead, he chooses to think about the slave he has his eye on. While the creatures themselves do not call their kind this, humans have dubbed their kind Frog Men, clunkily so. Despite this, the name is apt.

The slave is to the far right of the net--his bleeding hands are proof that he has not yet had time to develop calluses. On top of that, his clothing is not yet caked with blood or stiff with salt. His feet slip against the wave-soaked, peeling floorboards of the ship.

What’s beneficial about targeting Frog Men is that they are given much to eat. This is due to the facts that they tend to have the heavy-lifting jobs and that their massive bodies need plenty of food to function. If Sterling could convince one to share some of his food, he and Ta’hua wouldn’t have to worry about starvation for a long while.

The only trouble is convincing them to help. They’re not the smartest creatures, and there is more than a language barrier between Frog Men and everyone else. It might be too much trouble to coax food out of one. Nonetheless, Sterling has managed to do it before.

The sound of a scream jolts him out of his thoughts. A human is curled over her dripping arm, screeching in pain. The wooden planks beneath her are stained darkly. A mop rests next to her shaking body. Sterling bites his tongue slightly, trying to block out the screaming. Even so, he can’t take his eyes away from the scene. A slaver stands above the fallen slave. His leathery skin stretches to accommodate a widening smile.

The slavers are disgusting creatures. Tall and gray-skinned, their body is covered with wrinkles and spider-webbing veins. Their faces have only a mouth, one that is constantly pulled into a sharp, yellow-toothed grin. Their eyes hang from muscular tubes that sprout off of the top of their heads. Sterling has heard some slaves mutter about tearing off their eyes from their heads. He also holds this wish close to his heart.

Sterling tears his gaze away as the slaver slices at the slave’s exposed neck. Their innate violence scares him; he can never show any reason to be punished. Even the smallest things can have severe repercussions. Plus, the slavers don’t bother bandaging any injuries they cause. Either you deal with it yourself, or you die.

They love to cause pain, but hate to lose. If a slave is caught attempting to jump off the deck, the slavers will torture the unlucky soul for weeks before they put them out of their misery. They would sooner kill the slaves than let any of them escape.

Sterling spots Ta’hua gagging, but still working. It kills Ta’hua to see anyone treated this way. It seems at times that he is the only one on deck lamenting the lives lost. He sings songs to those who pass away, songs from his tribe, meant to guide the dead to their final resting place. But he cannot afford to sing now. For now, he must continue to work. If he stops, he opens the door to pain and death. Ta’hua may be mournful, but he’s no fool.

The deck must be cleaned at all times, otherwise, salt will settle into the wood and rot it. This makes it instantly clear who slacks on their duties above deck. All day, the deck slaves work under the boiling sun on a never-ending task. The boat is so large that it takes fifty slaves just to keep the deck from rotting. Every day, they clean the deck. Scrub it. Ignore the painful splinters that wedge underneath their nails. Avoid the slaver’s wrath. And the next day they do it all over again.

It begins to have a wear on your brain, this life. Sterling has started to forget anything but the boat, but the work, but the endless waves. He can’t even remember the last time the boat was docked at a port, even though he was sure it was less than a few months ago. Perhaps. Or was it last week? He doesn’t know. All he knows is how to push a mop across the deck floor.

And how to manipulate innocents.

Finish your work. Finish your work. Sterling chants to himself.

Finish your work. Finish your work.

A stick suddenly jabs into Sterling’s back. Flinching, expecting further punishment, Sterling draws his shoulders into his body to protect himself.

Nothing.

He cracks an eye open, met by blinding sunlight. Gradually opening himself up again, he turns to meet whatever poked him.

An elderly Avian stands in front of Sterling. Through the layer of thinning red feathers, a pair of tired, wrinkled eyes blearily stare at him. “My apologies, young man,” the Avian says, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t see you there.” His mop stick is now lowered, away from where it had accidentally bumped into Sterling.

He rubs the spot on his back. The seemingly harmless prod peeled up skin from the sunburn there. Through his shirt, he could already feel specks of blood pushing to the surface. The pain is not unbearable, but it stings badly. He lets his eyes water slightly, biting his lip. “It’s al-alright,” he sniffs. “I’m fine.”

The Avian’s beak twitches slightly. “Good man,” the Avian replies. Underneath all the bumps and grooves of his voice is a tone of deep sadness.

Sterling inclines his head ever so slightly before continuing with his work. Once he hears the old Avian shuffle away, he considers his new option.

Fortune smiled on him today. The old Avian would be a perfect temporary food source for Ta’hua and him. Already, the elderly are among the easiest to convince to share. Thanks to the incident today, Sterling has been able to plant the seeds of empathy in the slave’s heart. Hopefully, within the week, he would feel comfortable enough to give food to Sterling and his friend.

The only issue with the elderly is that, unlike younger slaves, they cannot last long without all of their food. They are also more likely to be punished since they work at a much slower rate than anyone else.

Sterling contemplates his options as he continues to mindlessly scrub the deck. He could set up a temporary food source with the Avian while he worked on the Frog Man’s willingness. That way, they could both be fed and, given some more time, perhaps convince a second slave.

He ignores the pang of a buried emotion, and continues to work.

Sterling lives for the sunsets.

Despite the coldness and unyielding waves, the sunsets on the Oilcean are gorgeous. For the first time all day, the heat abates to let in an embracing coolness. It wraps Sterling in its shivering arms, soothing his burns and splintery hands.

The sun lights up the waves. Bright flashes skitter across the water. The sky is painted in rich purples and delicate pinks, and, as the night progresses, it deepens into the most magnificent starry blue. Sometimes, Sterling feels a quiet desire to know why the sky changes to such beautiful colors.

As if called by the ensuing darkness, phosphorescent creatures rise from the depths. When the sun disappears, thousands of pulsating squids, octopi, and jellyfish take its place. Now, instead of cheerful gleams off of the waves, green and blue lights float regally beneath the frigid waters. Miles upon miles of open ocean are lit up in an underwater celebration of hope and light in the face of darkness.

And, best of all, the sunsets bring the promise of a break.

The familiar hiss of a slaver makes Sterling giddy with excitement. He gets a rest. He doesn’t have to work for the next five hours. His aching muscles and burning skin will no longer need to cry out for a bed.

He gathers up his cleaning supplies--his mop, sponge, and bucket coated with suds. Without a backward glance, he eagerly turns away from his workspace. He is the third in line to the locked door that leads downstairs. A slaver stares at them, his two eyes swinging down by his chin, as he watches the line. Once he deems that everyone is ready, he unlocks the door with a definite click.

The slaves hurry inside. Although relieved to be inside, none run. The last time someone was caught running below deck, they were thrown overboard and fed to the waiting squids.

They file steadily to a large cabinet, in which the mops are neatly stacked in a corner. The slavers will take any opportunity to hurt their slaves, so if anything is out of place, someone is guaranteed a beating.

As soon as Sterling makes sure that his bucket is facing the right direction and that his mop is not leaning against the wall, he quickly walks out of the room. Now that he has stopped working, his stomach begins to growl, as if it is just now noticing that it is empty. Eagerly, he makes his way to the cafeteria.

The gem cleaners and polishers, who work below deck, are already eating their food in silence. Sterling’s gut clenches in anger--they get the easiest job. Never burned by the sun, never doing the hard work, but always first to dinner. They claim the spots by the walls, so their backs are supported nicely. His gaze slides past their gaunt faces and onward to the line ahead of him.

Once he receives his dinner, he searches the line for Ta’hua. The blue and yellow Avian is easy to pick out of the crowd. He stands hunch-shouldered between a human and a Frog Man. His feet drag with every movement of the line. Sterling waits patiently for his friend to receive his meal.

Ta’hua approaches him right away and, without a word, make their way to a part of the room with fewer slaves. They sit down together, Ta’hua’s hands shaking as he holds his food.

“So little,” Sterling murmurs. A bread crust is all they have for tonight. Touching the rim of the crust, where bread once was, Sterling can feel teeth marks and a certain wetness.

He tears the corner of the crust off, places it in his mouth, and chews it slowly. He’s learned that he can trick his stomach into believing that there is more food if he eats it piece by piece. So, every bite is savored, every crumb licked from his hand.

“Di-did you find anyone?” Ta’hua asks.

Sterling shrugs slightly. “I may have found someone to temporarily support us. An old Avian. Red feathers.”

Ta’hua’s head droops further. “Another el-el-elder?”

Instead of getting angry with Ta’hua’s pickiness, Sterling nods wearily.

“Is there an-anyone else-se?”

“Maybe a Frog Man. He’s new.” Setting his head on his knees, Sterling bites his fingernail. “I’m not sure though.”

“I hate it here,” Ta’hua says suddenly. Sterling glances up sharply. Ta’hua’s stutter is gone. Although his words are quiet, each shakes with anger and sorrow. “I hate it so much. I hate what we do. I don’t care if we have to, I hate it so much. I want to go one night without crying or having a nightmare or hating myself so much that I want to die. I want one day to pass where I’m not whipped. I want…” Ta’hua trails off, his eyes dulling with tears. “I wa-ant…”

Despite Sterling’s best efforts, tears form at the reminder that he once had something better. His heart is hollow, his stomach even more so. A sudden wave of disgust at his earlier excitement washes over him.

He remembers his sister. Her comforting words. Her cherry soap. Mom will be back soon, she’s just on a business trip with daddy right now. She always knew what to say. Now it is his turn to know what to say.

“We’re not going to be here forever.” Sterling whispers. He closes his eyes, letting tears drip off of his eyelashes. “It just can’t happen.”

The rest of dinner is spent in silence.

As a bell rings, slaves hurry to stand up. Many just finished savoring their meal. Slavers let whips trail from their claws threateningly. They bark orders in their language at the slaves and, although no one knows what they are saying, their meaning is clear. They file out of the room in a hurry, their heads bowed submissively as they make their way to the slave’s quarters.

They enter the dark room one by one. There aren’t any beds, just rows and rows of wooden shelves. There are at least three hundred sleeping spots packed into a room meant for twenty.

Each slave climbs onto a shelf. There is nothing to stop one from rolling off in the middle of the night. Many prefer to take the bottom shelves so they don’t break a bone. However, the shelves closer to the floor tend to have rat infestations.

Sterling climbs up a ladder to take a shelf in the back of the room. Four shelves up, far enough from the rats but not too far from the ground to take a potentially life-threatening tumble. He bends his knees slightly, wishing to draw them up to his chest. If he did so, he would be too wide for the shelf and fall out. His clothing scratches painfully against his burns and, where there are holes, the wood does the same. The cold is now unwelcome, making his whole body shiver and promising him a restless night.

Nonetheless, Sterling knows that, if he is going to have energy for tomorrow, he will have to sleep. So, he closes his eyes and continues to tremble with cold.

His dream is filled with laughter and light. Nothing is coherent, except for the warm sense of peace and happiness in his chest. His sister holds him close, tightly. It is not painful; he is not burned. He enjoys the hug, nestling into the crook of her shoulder. Her hands rub up and down his back comfortingly. I love you so much, Sterling… Never give up… When tears splash onto his cheek, he looks up. Why are you crying? he asks softly.

Because I’m going to lose you… because I have already lost everyone…

You’ll never lose me, Ash. I promise.

Brave boy… stay brave, will you?

I will.

He sits up suddenly, hitting his head on the shelf above him. The slave above him pounds an angry fist against the wood plank. Sterling drags his legs to the side of his bed, so they can dangle, as he rubs the sore spot on his face. What woke me up…? His dream had been pleasant. No nightmare to shock him out of sleep tonight. Shaking his head, he listens closely to what seems like only waves. But soon, he can hear it again--shuff, shuffff. Shuff.

Heart rising in his throat, Sterling pulls his legs back into his cot. Those sounded like footsteps. Not the confident stride of the slavers, but someone trying to be sneaky. It was either someone trying to escape or--

Someone screamed, and gunfire filled the night.

Instantly, everyone was awake in the slave’s quarters. Some started to wail with fear, others prayed, but most just silently shook inside their shelves. The footsteps above were not so sneaky now. Rather, painful sounding thuds punctuated the crack of pistols and the smooth hiss of a different, more advanced weapon. Something that the slavers definitely couldn’t afford.

Sterling hid. He tried to keep his emotions in check, but his heart was already trembling with hope. Could it be…? Would he finally go back to his old life? He clenched his fists, begging some god unknown to let the attackers win. He couldn’t even bring himself to consider that the assailants could be a rival pirate ship. If all this meant was that a more powerful clan would take him, there was no way he could possibly live any longer.

Suddenly the door swings up, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Sterling’s head pokes out of his cot to see the person, and he instantly pulls it back in as he registers what’s happening. The slaver begins firing shots at the cots, and Sterling covers his ears. Crack crack, thunk, crack crack crack!

His voice is loud, screaming at the slaves as he shoots them down. It hisses and cracks with pure, ungodly rage. What was going on?

Wood splinters as bullets ricochet everywhere in the room. Sterling shakes so hard that he can barely keep his hands on his ears. Is this it? he wonders tearfully. Am I going to die now? Do I die in this awful place?

No.

The gunshots are suddenly cut off, replaced by a strangled gurgling noise. “I found them,” someone whispers.

A tinny voice replies, “Where are you, soldier?”

“Below deck. It looks like everyone is down here.”

Hardly daring to breathe, Sterling sits up. As his eyes travel down the aisles, finally he spots the soldier. The man is covered head to toe in white armor, and orange, glowing glass plates protect his eyes. As soon as Sterling sees him, he forgets the ship.

He forgets his years spent on it.

He forgets his caution.

He cries out, stumbling down the ladder to rush to the man. He is crying so hard that he can barely breathe, his breath hitching every second. As he collapses in the soldier’s arms, he is screaming. After a second of hesitation, the man picks up Sterling, propping up the child on his hip. A cool, armored hand presses against his back. The other rests atop Sterling’s limp hair. The man calls to the room, “You’ve been rescued by the Navy of the Oilcean. We’re here to help you.”

Sterling wails incoherently as the man’s backup arrives. Doctors rush the room, helping up those injured by the wild shooting of the slaver, who now lies dead on the floor. They tie red ribbons onto the toes of the dead and cover them with heavy blankets. It was probably the best cloth that those slaves had felt in years.

The man carries Sterling through the ship. His crying echoes throughout the boat that he had spent the last four years tending. Each pause in his sobbing opens up another painful memory, sending him through the cycle again.

Once he reaches above deck, the soldier sets the child down. “Sh,” he says softly. “We’re here to help. You’re going home.”

“Please don’t leave me,” Sterling whispers, clutching the man’s wrist. Desperation clogs his words. “Please.”

“I--”

“Soldier Ruben!” A voice shouts.

The soldier’s gentle demeanor disappears as he snaps into a salute. “Yes, Senior Captain Ashley!” His voice matches the bark of the first.

“Why are you above deck! Why aren’t you helping with the injured?”

The soldier’s eyes trail down to Sterling, and he swallows slightly. “I was comforting this child, Senior Captain Ashley!”

The Captain marches over to Sterling. She is not wearing white armor--rather, she is wearing a helmet and a strange, scaly looking shirt. There is something vaguely familiar about the round curve of his face. The blonde hair hanging by her chin might as well be his own…

Their gazes meet.

The Captain sinks to the ground, her brown eyes suddenly filling with tears. A trembling hand presses against his cheek. “S-Sterling?”

Sterling’s eyes squint in confusion. “…Ash?”

Sterling’s sister pulls him in for a hug, her quiet gasping sobs scraping past his ears.

The gentle, floral scent of cherries reaches him.

“Sterling,” she pulls back from the hug. Her eyes are still wet with tears, but no more form. “I have to let you go for now. My men need my help. Soldier Ruben will lead you to the submarine. There are people waiting to help you.”

With that, the Captain stands. She heads to the door leading downstairs, her boots cracking the floorboards of the ship with every stride. His reality crumbles with every step she takes.

Crack. Tomorrow I won’t have to wake up before sunrise.

Crack. Tomorrow I won’t have to trick someone into feeding me.

Crack. Tomorrow I won’t have to fear for my life.

When Ashley reaches the door, she looks back once and nods. Then, she disappears into the blackness of the stairway.

Sterling stares after her for a few more seconds before Soldier Ruben leads him to the edge of the deck. A ladder is bolted onto the side of the ship. Above the waves, the top of a submarine cuts through the water as it keeps pace with the ship.

Ruben holds Sterling’s emaciated body close to his chest as he climbs down the ladder. His bony knees knock together with every step. Each rung takes him further away from the memories of death and slavery. Each rung takes him closer to freedom.

Once they reach the submarine, a group of humans takes Sterling. Ruben leaves Sterling to them, off to help more of the rescued onto the submarine. Every moment is a blur. They bathe him in warm water, gently washing away the dirt, dead skin, and grime that have accumulated over years without bathing. They dry him with a towel so fluffy that it practically floats above his skin. Then, they dress him in clothes too soft to imagine.

Sterling remembers staying awake to search for Tu’hua. Eventually, when his friend comes, they sat together and cried. Once their tears are too painful to continue crying, they fall asleep together in the safety of a warm bed.

Two days later, Sterling wakes up in a hospital. He’s dressed in different clothing, and a white blanket is tucked up to his chin. He sits up, his eyes half open, expecting instant pain. When nothing comes, he checks his face for burns. Nothing. He pats his back--only old whip scars.

“You’re awake.” A quiet voice says from the corner.

Sterling’s eyes go straight towards the sound. “A-Ashley?”

The woman sitting in front of him is a far cry to the girl from four years ago. Her eyes are tired, bags worn into her face underneath them. Muscles have formed on her arms, and there is a certain cunning to her eyes that Sterling does not remember.

“Do you remember me, Sterling?” The boy looks down at his hands, which clench the covers of his cot.

“I remember your cherry soap.” He says softly. “I remember the way you would hold me close when I cried because mommy wasn’t home. I… I remember that, even though you’re my sister, you’re like mommy.”

She nods. “Do you remember the day we were captured?”

Sterling closes his eyes. His breathing increases slightly. “Yes,” he whispers. “We were on a cruise ship. Mommy and daddy were celebrating their company’s success. I remember we weren’t supposed to be on the Oilcean, because of the pirates, but daddy gave money to the man that said we couldn’t and then he said we could. And then our ship was attacked, and mommy and Emma… they… they died… and they took you away…”

“Sterling,” Ashley broke in. “I need you to tell me where dad is. I know he went on the same ship as you. Is he alive?”

Sterling shook his head, his eyes still closed.

Ashley fell back in her chair. A trembling sigh brushed past her lips. “That’s it then. You and I are the only two left.” Only a few moments pass before she breathes in deeply, bracing herself against the wall of emotions threatening to crush her. “Sterling, I’m going to tell you what happened to me. Once I’m done, you can ask questions. I’m not going to make you tell me your story.”

Sterling’s eyes crack open to see his sister. She has her forearms braced on her knees, which she leans over. Her hair swings in front of her eyes as she begins to speak.

“When they separated me from you and dad, I almost died with grief and fear. I didn’t know where I was going, didn’t know what would happen, and had no one to tell me what to do. All I could do was what I was supposed to. I was put on an oil rig. I was always covered in the stuff. It was always in my mouth; all of the food tasted like oil. It was awful.

“But, within a year, my oil rig was liberated by the Navy of the Oilcean. I was free, but I had nowhere to go. Dad and mom’s company had already been claimed by one of their heirs, and they shut me out. They didn’t want a lawsuit on their hands. I… I didn’t know what to do.

“I realized that I had to do something with my life. After all, it was saved for a reason. So I looked to you. I had a new goal in life--finding you and dad. The best way to go about that was to join the Navy. I spent every moment trying to make my way to the next rank, so I could start searching specifically for you and dad.

“It was hard, because people easily connected my actions with my past. Many tried to get me fired since they thought I was biased towards you.” Ashley chuckles softly. “They were right, of course. Didn’t mean I could let them get in my way.

“I spent every minute of my day fighting my way to the top. And, once I was there, I spent every other minute fighting to stay there. I was able to trace several ships that could possibly have you onboard. As the years went by, I had to confront the possibility that you and dad might be dead. But… I never gave up.” She smiles sadly. “And here we are.”

Sterling blinks. “Where is here?”

Ashley sits up, and her sadness fades away. “We’re still on the Oilcean. A hospital, in San Paola.”

“Is Ta’hua safe?”

“The Avian you fell asleep with?” At Sterling’s nod, she continues. “He’s doing just fine. He’s been awake for a few hours now, actually. Very quiet, that boy.”

Sterling’s lip trembles. “Am… am I safe?”

Ashley’s eyebrows slant sadly. She comes to sit on his bed, careful not to disturb his legs. She grasps one of his hands. “From now and forever.”

Sterling smiles at her, his eyes filling with tears built up over four years of torture, pain, and misery.

From now and forever.

And there it is! I hope you enjoyed reading my first short story of the summer! Thank you for reading!

- L.E. Silva

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