Topic catch-up
If you could read my mind right now… Talk about a conversation when what you said was not what you were thinking.
Choosing just one conversation... honestly, I don't think I can. There was a time, when we were trying to save Jack and then fighting Davy Jones, that nearly everything I said wasn't what I was thinking. I was doing everything I could to save my father, even if it meant working with the East India Trading Company. Which I did. So I double-crossed Jack and the others, and even Elizabeth. I'm not proud of my actions, but I had made a promise to my father, and there was no way I was going to break it. I've learned the hard way that you can't ever really trust a pirate. I thought I had a better chance working with Lord Beckett. I hated it, but it was what I had to do.
I'll never know if my decision was the right one. Perhaps I would have been better to have trusted Jack and the others. Maybe I if I had, I wouldn't have found myself trapped on the Flying Dutchman for the next ten years. But I can't think abuot that too much, or else it will drive me insane. There's just as much chance that trusting them would have been the biggest mistake of my life. They are, after all, pirates.
Write about a recurring dream you've had.
For ten years, it's been the same dream. Every night, the same. There are other dreams as well, when he sleeps long enough to have more than one, but there is always the one.
It's night, and he's wandering the decks of the Dutchman, doing his nightly checks of the ship to make sure everything is in order before turning in. His father is nowhere to be seen, probably already in bed, and he only gives him a fleeting thought before moving on. It's automatic, after so much time on the ship, and he only half-looks around him as he goes through the mental checklist. It's only when he's starting down the steps to the captain's quarters that he notices something is wrong.
Organ music. He remembers the sound from his short time on the ship when Davy Jones was still captain. He'd played every night, the same slow, haunting song. Will had thought it beautiful, in a sad sort of way, and often wondered how a man like Davy Jones could produce such heartbroken chords. Confused, he crept into the cabin, wondering if maybe his father was behind the music. He'd spent enough time on Davy Jones's crew, he might have learned the song himself.
Will hadn't touched the organ once since taking over the ship. It had been a symbol of Davy Jones, more than anything else in the room, and he couldn't bring himself to go near it. He didn't play, anyway, so it was easier to just pretend it wasn't there and ignore the inches of dust that accumulated on it over the years. It wasn't dusty now, however. It was nearly pristine, even more than it had been when Davy Jones had controlled the ship. And there was a man sitting at it, swaying slowly as he pounded out the melancholy tune, seemingly oblivious to Will's entrance. Tentacles wound out from the back of his head, around to the keyboard, giving the song a fuller melody than human hands could ever produce.
"Davy Jones." Will spoke the name in a low whisper, as though afraid to catch the man's attention. He shouldn't be here: he had killed him with his own hand. This was not possible.
The man didn't turn, didn't even flinch. He played on, filling the room with his mourning. Will quietly crept forward and slid around the side of the instrument so he could get a better look at him, but all he could see were more of those monstrous tentacles.
"You're dead," Will said after watching him for a while longer. The song never slowed, never changed, and he realized that it was composed in such a way that it could be played indefinitely, looping with no beginning, no end. Just a constant stream of notes, each one more despairing than the last. His chest ached the more he listenend, untli he felt that he couldn't take another moment of it. He was about to turn around, to flee the room, when something about the other man caught his attention.
There was something different, something he couldn't quite place. He reached a shaking hand out toward him, not sure exactly what he planned to do, but uanble to stop himself. When his fingers came into contact with the man's shoulder, the music stuttered, just for a moment, before continuing on. But the man turned this time, finally acknowledging his presence. It wasn't until he met his gaze taht Will reazlied what had been bothering him.
This wasn't Davy Jones.
Will gasped and took a step backwards, but couldn't tear his eyes away. The eyes staring back at him, almost hidden behind the inhuman mask were familiar. Too familiar. His father's eyes.
Swallowing hard, he started to step forward again, but a rough voice stopped him.
"She wasn't there."
It was soft, slightly broken, as though he rarely spoke, but Will was close enough to catch the words.
"She didn't wait."
And that was when it hit him, and he would wake with a strangled scream. The man at the piano wasn't his father: it was Will himself.