He had felt guilty for that.
Terribly.
He wondered what were the associations of ideas making him think about that. He found the answer very slowly: it was a simple, primitive fear of being unable to survive, that his last moments were there, on board the Queen Anne’s Revenge.
While trying to shake that sense of impotence away, he propped his elbows up on the deck, wanting to stand up. The pain in his shoulder bit him, then it got dispersed in a tingle at his fingertips.
“Come on!”, he spurred himself. The image of the pirates hunting him was still in his mind. “Get away from here… you can do it…” He spit some clotted blood out. “Be brave, Johnny!” His eyes met a corpse lying not very far away from him. He hadn’t noticed it at first, being too busy in finding the hatchet. Then, when he
