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Things were going well.
Actually, they weren’t going well, at all, they actually were going, like, horribly. There was nothing but raids and blood and gore anymore. No niceties. No story time. No, no, no- It kinda was the point, though, so, things were going well, yes, actually, goodly bad, badly good, yup. He still had it ! He still bloody had it. Whatever *it* was. He was the Kraken, he was feared, everyone hated him, which was great, or something, and he ought to be satisfied, probably, with how successful he was at being a dick. Well, Izzy was satisfied alright. He probably was the only happy man on board. He looked like he had found God. Except it was Blackbeard he looked at with so much reverence. … Edwar-The Kra-Blackbe-... he didn’t feel like God, he felt like. Too many words jumbled in his head. The feverish, devoted eyes of his first mate while he was swallowing his own toe came back to him. In retrospect, the whole thing was really, really grossing him out. Ew.
The wind carried the grumbly voices of his crew to him. Some of the new recruits probably were happy with the current state of things too, he guessed. They looked pretty damn fierce and ruthless and stuff. Good pirates. Not good, good, per say, oh no, they were *bad*, horrible, grimy and cruel, and, and, not good-looking, but, that also was the point, wasn’t it? Being ugly and mean and stuff. Scary. Booh.
Edw- Blackbeard shakes his head vehemently. Fucking thought process going all brrrr.
What was he doing again?
Staring at the sea longing for- oh fuck off, no, something else, the sea, yes, in which he threw Lu- no, not that either, fuck, ah, right, yes, the clouds, yes, fog soon, yes, might help with a fuckery, yes, the horizon, blurry as fuck, just like his mind, he chuckles, a guy whose name he didn’t bother to learn stops swiping the deck and stares at him a second too long, and Blackbeard hisses at him. The guy cowers and moves on. He watches him go, trying to remember what he had been thinking about… Ah, yes, the clouds. He looks up at them. For a while.
… His mind goes blank. It would be a peaceful matter, this contemplation, if he could, like, move at all, or, think at all, but no, he is stuck, he feels like he will stay stuck forever, incapable of forming any meaningful idea, incapable of moving even his little finger, he tries and tries and how fuckin’ weird it is that he can’t do a single thing anymore. Frustration builds up, builds up, builds up, he starts resenting the fuckin’ sky and its captivating, all encompassing, blinding whiteness, when suddenly a voice snaps him back to reality:
“Captain, we need to get supplies soon, we are getting low on, well, pretty much everything.”
That’s what you get for sinking down ships without properly emptying them of their valuables and rations. But damn is pillaging boring, requires way too much organisation, what do we take, what do we need, how do we transport something from one ship to another, and nah nah nah and so on and so forth and that’s just too many goddamn questions. Not fun, no adrenaline, boring as fuck, too slow, leaves too much space in which to think, and god does he hate thinking now, did he always hate thinking that much? Why does he - a flash of a smile “You make Stede happy”- Edward want to throw himself off the railing. He is pretty sure Izzy is still talking to him, he desperately tries to focus on it once again, tries not to jump off board, tries to, tries. At some point he manages to catch:
“... and that’s why I suggest we go to the Republic of Pirates.”
“Sure, yes, that’s, yup, you do that.”
He flees. He had only been on the deck to try and escape from his thoughts a bit, they harassed him relentlessly when he was scooped up in the cabin, but, yeah, that was useless wasn’t it, as everything was, wasn’t it, yes, nothing makes sense everything is terrible, true that, true true true- he closes the door with more strength than it needs and it goes “BANG”, effectively slapping his mind, if that’s a thing that can be slapped, probably, after all you can lose your mind, so it’s a thing, and you can slap a thing, right?
Suddenly he’s slapping himself and for a second he feels better, more grounded. He gets just enough focus to catch a glimpse of a bottle on the ground, and now there’s nothing else in the world. Yes, this, this is the answer to all of his problems, this is what he craves, this is what he needs, yes, yes! -fuckin’ finally. He runs to it and promptly forgets how terrible it always makes him feel after. In a few gulps it is thoroughly empty. Disappointed, he throws it to the wall and it explodes and the sound makes him even more fuckin mad and he starts rummaging through a collection of discarded bottles trying to find one he hasn’t uncorked yet.
He can’t find any, he doesn’t know where to find one, nothing is manageable, why can’t he just find one, it’s easy, isn’t it, it’s basic, it has to be there, somewhere, he already checked this one hasn’t he, everything looks the same, nothing makes sense, why can’t he just find one fuckin’ bottle it’s not that fuckin’ hard why is he so fuckin’ useless and shit and he is such a mess and he is unworthy of love and-
He curls up on an onslaught of broken glass and starts sobbing uncontrollably, thinking with every ounce of his being just how much he deserves the cuts blooming on his skin. His blurry vision catches a bloody gash on the inside of his hand and it almost looks like a familiar piece of silk. He closes his fist, makes it hurt, and growls, growls like a wounded animal. Then he lets it go, and doesn't make any sound anymore. He just stays there. Time passes without him. He doesn’t feel anything anymore. … This was fine.
Things were going well.