She's down there somewhere. Right beneath me. I can feel her.
I close my weary eyes against the pitch-blackness of the ship’s cargo hold, feeling the aged floorboards stir beneath me, as the massive hull of the elderly vessel squeals and groans with each tired roll through the ocean’s waves. A balled up moth-eaten sweater atop my battered briefcase serves as a makeshift pillow beneath my head, and my loden coat, a blanket.
Uncomfortable, I attempt in vain to adjust my bedding, and then flop over heavily, exhaustedly, onto my other side only making matters worse. I shake my head to clear it of the ghosts robbing me of sleep, but I can not blind my mind’s eye. With the rolling waves my dreams come and go. More often, the latter.
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