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HOME Author: Lady Anaranë Disclaimer: I do not own “Pirates of the Caribbean” or the character Jack Sparrow. Summary: You find yourself missing the endless blue green waves and the taste of salt in the air. And most of all, you’re missing -him-. Sometimes, you think, you’re living someone else’s life. It’s like you’ve run away, stepped outside the boundaries when everything was going right. But you’re certain now; you want to go home. A one-shot. Author's Note: Please review! I’ll stuff you with cookies & let you borrow Jack for the night! * * * * * The summer breeze wafts through your hair, tangling itself in your soft locks and nonchalantly tossing them about. The fresh, clean scent in the air reminds you of the sea, of the Caribbean, and in return, a certain pirate who you have tried all too hard to keep your mind off of while you’re here. It will only make you discontent with everything about you and around you, missing him. But despite your efforts, within just a few shorts moments, your heart has almost shattered into a million sharp pieces. You have been in beautiful Paris for almost a month now, and before that, Rome, for three. You enjoy traveling and you once loved your job, but now it seems almost more of a burden then something that brings you joy. You find yourself missing the endless blue green waves and the taste of salt in the air. And most of all, you’re missing -him-. You’re certain now; you want to go home. You walk throughout the streets, surrounded by many of dozens of hundreds of people by day, but still you have never felt so isolated and alone in your life. That’s what you hate most of all; knowing that you have so many people you can speak with, spend time with, maybe even enjoy their company, but yet, you don’t. -Could- is the most important word in that inquisition. You could do many things. But yet, your mind will still be on the same man and the same thoughts, day and night. [I want to go home.] You miss him. Sometimes you miss him so much your entire body aches of cold and certain emptiness. On those nights you sink into the steaming water of a hot bath, relaxing your tense muscles and inhaling the scent of fresh rose water. And still, even with the steam clearing your head and your soaking locks dripping down your back, your cheeks flushed pink, something inside of you still refuses to rekindle until it finds the right match. And you’re plenty positive what flame will fill and burn your insides just so. Four, possibly five months apart, and still you have kept every letter you’ve written him since the morning you left. You know exactly where to send them, Tortuga, where you’re sure he will get them. But every time you fold the parchment and slide it inside the envelope, something stops you. Every letter is only a line or two, for you cannot bring yourself to write anymore. [Everything is so strange, and I-] [I cannot even remember what I was like before-] [Didn’t I enjoy this at one time? I can’t remember, but-] [Do you-] Your words seem dead and slain, and you know he deserves more than that. You’re lucky to have the nice things you do, the nice places you stay in, the admiration and care from the people you work with and for. But you can’t hide or help it; you want to go home. Can’t someone understand that? You’re too far from where he is. You need to see his dark, soulful eyes, and feel those calloused hands upon your fair skin, lightly kissed from the sun. You need to hear his smoky voice in your ear during the middle of the night and kiss his experienced mouth. You need to taste the salt on his bronzed flesh, and sigh in pleasant relief and unsated adoration as he runs his palms over the smooth exterior of your thighs. You need to feel, taste, hear, and see all of what this man is. And then you’ll be home. Sometimes, you think, you’re living someone else’s life. It’s like you’ve run away, stepped outside the boundaries when everything was going right for both you and him. You feel most guilty, but you know he would do the same if he was in your position. The Black Pearl is in major importance to him, and if it was either you or the waves... well, you know how that situation would go. You asked him about once. The pirate simply sighed and pulled you to him, his weight hovering over you like a pleasant safety, and gently kissed your mouth. His eyes bored deep into yours as he replied, “Darling, that would never happen. And if it did, as you so persistently declare, I would take you with me, kicking and screaming, if it came down to it. I could never abandon you. Never.” “But what if you couldn’t take me with you? What if it was one or the other?” you pressed curiously. He curled his fingers gently around the back of your neck, a tender but profound gesture that you’ve always adored. “It would never happen.” And that was that. You remember when you left, and how you longed to ask him to come with you. But alas, you knew this is not the life he wants to live. The two of you have very different dreams, very different longings, although they occasionally meet in the middle. But even though the both of you are aware of this fact, you still respect what he does and who he is, as he does you. That’s one thing that will never change: he will always believe in you, even when - if it ever came down to it - no one else would. And now that you have decided you have finally completed what you came here to do, you’re leaving Paris tonight, whether your employees agree with the decision or not. Your longing for home has become unbearable, and you are willing to do anything to get out of this situation. You have to go home. And they have to let you get there, no question about it. You’re done. And now, with your heels clicking down the cobblestones of the street, your skirts swishing about your legs with your movements, and your satchel over your shoulder, all that runs through your head is: [It will all be all right. I’m going home.] THE END |