chapter 8: "Captive Horizons"

It was around midnight when a deckhand from Carter's watch, one of the late-night crew shifts, hurried below deck for his jacket. A murmur spread almost instantly among the crew in the dimly lit quarters.

"Trevor's finally done it," someone whispered.

No name was mentioned, but we all knew. The weight of the words hung in the air, like the oppressive humidity in the cramped sleeping quarters. Before anyone could fully grasp what was being said, the hatch swung open, flooding the space with cold air and the sound of crashing waves. Captain Holden descended the ladder, his boots echoing ominously.

He scanned the room, his sharp eyes cutting through the dim light. Then, to my utter surprise, his gaze landed on me, and he addressed me with uncharacteristic gentleness.

"Rylan," he said. "You're needed in the roundhouse. You'll be switching roles with Liam. Go on, move aft."

Two crewmen appeared behind him, carrying Liam—barely conscious—between them. In the swinging lantern light, Liam's face was ghostly pale, his lips curled in a strange, haunting half-smile. My stomach churned. I felt an icy dread settle over me.

"Move!" Holden barked, startling me from my thoughts.

I scrambled past the sailors and up the ladder, out onto the deck. The ship swayed violently as it cut through the dark waters. The cool night air hit me like a slap, and I caught myself on a rope just as the ship tilted steeply. The horizon was faintly lit, though I couldn't fathom why.

I staggered aft toward the roundhouse, gripping whatever I could to keep from being tossed overboard. The roundhouse stood elevated, a sturdy, well-built cabin amid the chaos of the open deck. Inside, it was surprisingly spacious, with a fixed table, a pair of bunks, and lockers lining the walls. A single lamp burned, casting flickering shadows across the room.

Trevor sat at the table, a half-empty bottle of rum and a tin cup in front of him. He was a large, imposing man, with broad shoulders and dark, brooding eyes. But tonight, he looked... hollow. His gaze was fixed on the table, his expression vacant.

The captain entered behind me, his face grim. He leaned against a bunk, arms crossed, silently watching Trevor. I stayed near the door, unsure of what to do. My instincts told me to flee, but there was nowhere to go.

Moments later, Carter stepped in. He took one look at Trevor, then at the captain, and gave a barely perceptible nod. The message was clear: Liam was dead.

We all stood there in silence, the weight of the unspoken truth pressing down on us. Trevor, oblivious to our presence, reached for the bottle. Carter moved faster than I thought possible, snatching it away.

"That's enough!" Carter growled, his voice thick with anger. "Haven't you done enough for one night?"

Before Trevor could react, Carter hurled the bottle out the open door, where it shattered against the side of the ship. Trevor shot to his feet, his eyes blazing with fury. For a moment, I thought he might attack Carter, but the captain intervened, stepping between them.

"Sit down!" Holden roared. "You drunken fool, do you even realize what you've done? You've killed the boy!"

Trevor froze, his expression shifting from anger to something more primal—fear. He sank back into his chair, burying his face in his hands.

"He brought me the wrong cup," he muttered, his voice barely audible.

The three of us exchanged horrified glances. Holden grabbed Trevor by the shoulder, guiding him to one of the bunks like a scolded child.

"Lie down," Holden ordered. "Sleep it off."

Trevor complied, his shoulders slumping as he pulled off his boots.

"This can't leave the ship," Holden said, turning to Carter. "Liam fell overboard. That's the story. And I'd pay a small fortune if that were true."

The captain gestured for me to fetch another bottle from the lockers. Reluctantly, I obeyed, fumbling with the keys he tossed me. When I returned, he poured drinks for himself and Carter, and they sat together, their expressions grim.

Trevor, half-asleep in his bunk, stared at them—or maybe at me—with a haunted look.

---

By morning, I had adjusted to my new role, though it was hardly an improvement. My duties included serving meals and drinks to the captain and officers, day and night. The food was simple—porridge, salted meat, and occasionally duff. Despite my clumsiness, Holden and Carter were unusually patient with me, perhaps out of guilt over what had happened to Liam.

Trevor, however, was a different story. His mind seemed fractured. He avoided me, recoiling whenever I approached. Once, when we were alone, he stared at me for an unnervingly long time before speaking.

"You're new, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I replied cautiously.

"There was another boy here before," he murmured.

"Yes, sir," I said again.

He nodded absently. "Thought so."

He said nothing more, only slumped back into his chair and reached for the rum.

---

Life in the roundhouse was strange and stifling. While I was fed well and even allowed some luxuries, like pickles and occasional sips of liquor, I couldn't shake the oppressive atmosphere. The weight of Liam's death hung over us all, especially Trevor and me.

The days blurred together, each one more hopeless than the last. I felt trapped, not just by the ship, but by the bleak future that awaited me. Every attempt to speak with the captain about my situation was met with cold indifference. Even Carter, who showed flashes of kindness, avoided the topic.

And so, I worked, slept, and endured, haunted by the shadow of a boy who had been discarded as carelessly as the bottle of rum.