*Anne*
He is angry at me, furious in fact, judging by the tautness in his features. And so profoundly proud, standing there so magnificently, almost rebelliously, trying to show that the scars don't matter, that they are nothing.
I wish I hadn't seen how terribly he had been hurt. But I have and I can't undo what I have seen. I feel sicker in my stomach now than I did during the worst part of the storm.
He had been a boy when he had gone to sea, seeking adventure, not much younger than Mouse. Had he been as slender, as vulnerable? Had he been near that age when he felt the bite of the whip? Had he screamed? Had he cried? Had he begged them to stop?
"How can men do that to another?" I ask.
"It's standard practice on a ship when someone isn't behaving... quite properly," he bites out.
