Pirate story and things.

Went shopping today and it was fun because I got a dress which is cute and a pair of jeans that I like. This is good because I normally hate wearing jeans but these are comfy and cute; technically they are jeggings but nonetheless, they'll keep me warm. Er; than tights. Those are the main expenses apart from my boots and the leggings, skirt and cardigan I bought. Because apparently 'You're not sixteen everyday' means my parents can afford this stuff (my birthday is next week, mind; I was buying stuff for the dinner I'm having as well as other necessities).

Ngl, when I was shopping, for some reason I got really upset. This was before I bought the dress so maybe it was just because I was fearing the shopping spree had not been that productive, but I seem to find myself sad sometimes. Just sad. Kind of dragging myself through the day. It's odd, because you'd think I'd be happy to see my mother willing to spend money on me and stuff, but I get random bursts of sadness. I'd like to think therapy is helping a little, and I definitely feel like I have less weight on my shoulders, less things on my chest, but I'd like to be diagnosed; it'd help to have a label that I can use as opposed to, when I tell people I need therapy, saying 'just because'. I admit I don't actually mind telling people, mostly because I like to gauge their reactions; people like Jacob are incredulous and say 'But you're so happy all the time'. Truth is, Jacob makes me happy. Not in a 'I fancy him' kind of way, but just... I'm glad to have him in my life. Same with all my friends, but I like Jacob's honesty and bluntness but at the same time he's very sweet. I should tell him more often.

Anyway, birthday. Next week. Thirteenth. Sixteenth's year of being alive. Not that excited. I mean, I'm getting presents which include books so wahey, but... getting old is something I'm not keen on. I see old people on my bus, their withered skin and tired eyes, and dread becoming like that. That tired, that resentful; regretful too. I'm scared of taking risks but at the same time I'm terrified of regretting not taking them. But I do think of it like this: I'd like to be married in fifteen years, at the latest; but I don't see myself getting a boyfriend any time soon. I worry that I'm getting older and nothing's happened yet. I'm still single, still bored and still very insecure; I'm wishing all vanish gracefully with experience and age but I can so clearly see myself alone, in the middle of a small, cold apartment in London, having accomplished nothing. Like Bridget Jones, only no-one will like me 'just as I am'; no-one wanting to be my Mr. Darcy.

On a lighter note, I have a short story to share. It stars Helena, a thief from London and Vincent, a pirate; she comes from a poor background and has to get by in ways that are less than pleasant whereas he comes from a rich family, but as a bored delinquent, he quits the Navy and follows the path of piracy. I like their chemistry; she's young and feisty with flaming curly, red hair but she's on the same level as him; just as cunning. She sneaks upon the ship, desperate to flee from the life she has to endure and plans on hiding among the pantry until they next make land. But she is found by Benjamin, Vincent's best friend and accomplice, and he hauls her into the captain's quarters. The girl intrigues Vincent and he decides to keep her on board so he can learn more about her. Vincent is based off Robert Downey Jr's interpretation of Sherlock Holmes, only more sly and Benjamin is like Watson, I suppose, only not as goody-two-shoes; it's like James and Sirius only Benjamin is the more talkative one. Helena I have to say I've not really based off of anyone; she's self-sufficient and strong, but Vincent deteriorates that with his curiosity, as she's never been the object of someone's attention before. He makes her feel like she's vulnerable with how protective he grows of her.

So here goes:

“But do tell me,” he said huskily, tracing the back of his fingers against her rough cheek. “Why is it you slip into that ever-so-endearing old Cockney accent every so often?”

“Because it's my real one. Some... clients, preferred it when I seemed like a little posh girl gone astray,” Helena replied, walking from him and tracing her finger along his desk. She was well-acquainted with games men liked to play, the taunting before the incident, but this was different; there was deep lust in his eyes she did not recognize. It seemed to go beyond simply wanting to ravish her, but rather that he wanted to break down the wall she had erected around her heart and devour the information, and never forget it. The men she had encountered usually only wished for the one night, sometimes not even in a suitable location, and that was that. Of course it wasn’t pleasant regardless of the place or not, but she’d take their wallet so it was all a day’s, or night’s to be more accurate, work; what’s more is that it was usually worth it because most of them were rich, married men whose wives were just as stressed and tired as they were and thus could not provide for them in the ways that Helena could: this meant that it was over pretty quickly and was well worth it since what lied in the wallet could sustain her for a while. Point being: not being familiar with how his eyes glittered, she chose to not stay so close to him, as a precaution. “Seemed to... get them excited, me having some exciting back-story, rather than the typical ‘raised in an orphanage'.”

“Clients?”

“How else do you think I got by?” She frowned, not liking the tone in his voice; surprise.

He was silent for a while before, without looking at her, asking, “How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” she answered promptly, not sure where he was getting at. “Why?”

“You seem older,” said Vincent. “I never thought... well I suppose it should be quite common, for a girl of your age and status but still... I... I’m not sure I feel about the idea of you having to sleep with other men in order to make a living.”

“What else do you suggest I do?” She didn’t enunciate the ‘t’ on the word ‘what’. “And besides, what business is it of yours?”

“Touché,” he said softly. “But I’m afraid it will make you rather protective of you when we next make land; I don’t want anyone coming to close to what’s mine.”

“And who’s to say I’m yours?” She barely finished her question before he had circled the desk to have his face inches from hers; near enough to smell the peppermint in his breath. And there was that look in his eyes again, the one that made her stomach feel hollow.

“The look in your eyes.” His voice for so sure and confident that she had nothing to retort and watched his saunter out of the quarters wordlessly.

---

I know it's short, but I'm still developing them. I like the trio: Vincent, Benjamin and Helena. I was going to name her Scarlett but I'm not sure; seems it would be too corny given she's a redhead. Thoughts?

Love, as always, Mel.