45) When I had lowered the lifeboat into the water I was rudely surprised to find it was not worthy. It was without a floating chance. The sea began to pour in from a dozen rotted breaches. I grabbed ahold of the rope and, as the skiff sank, I was obliged to cling and thence climb back up the hull of the ship. Some escape. But, with the skiff disappeared into the modest off-shore abyss, other moves came to me slogging though honey. I am not a good climber. I am a poor climber. Life, however elaborated, will find a way. Inside me there is a spark, an urge, a flame(?) that is undeniable. I know Carlos had it, and his friend, the Knights of the Short Straw, they had it. I saw it in their failing eyes. Mine was stronger. I am no more deserving, merely stronger in so small a way that, nevertheless, makes all the difference. Some, of an otherworldly persuasion, hold precious smooth, rounded stones, even though, and someone should tell them, a machine can tumble the most jagged rock to perfection. Further, remote worlds, planets, all the suns above, they are all round, to the aided eye. The moon, I'll start there, is clearly. So, perhaps the rough stone is the rarer? The world likes edges, me thinks. Too great an idea here. Then, now, while hanging, myself listing the ship a bit, I wondered, would I ever find a life urge stronger than mine? I am not even trying! Of course, the stars were of no help. Jumping fish retreated. No assistance at all came to me. Well, the wind pushed me this way and that. I was banged onto new hand holds. Still... Tears nearly fell.
I was desperate. My cold hands, those of a freshly minted killer, seemed to make the rope weak. I swear, it began unraveling at my touch. But I made it. Back on board, I had to find a place to hide. I tucked my soul into the darkest shadow and waited. Another man came down, stomping in rubber boots, down from Dr. Creep's room of confidence. I espied him peering into the hold. He shouted out the alarm. Others came running. One descended into the hold. More shouting. Another noticed the dangling ropes over the side. They put together my escape as it should have been. Words, words, more words. Lights were trained upon the deep. Pitiful lights, designed to only provoke stupid fish to the surface, for an easy kill. Shouts. 'Nada'. And 'nada', again. The ship began to heave. The searching crew was shunted to one side, so powerful was the thrust. Shore bound we were. I wish I were in possession of a fuller nautical language so as to render the practiced activity more precise: boatswain whistles, knots, marking twain, hoisting, so on. Dull, dull. Keep a clear head. I am the filthy, fugitive thing in deepest shadow. All I need to know.
Another shadow approaches near to me. He stands close enough to touch. His gloved hand touches my brow. He brushes away my wet, matted, hair. He smells of heavy oil, ash. Too long in the fire. 'Still, still, your panic'd heart', he says. 'North'.
I am the needle in every haystack. I am the rare coin in a shopkeepers till. The last living bird of a kind. Or puzzle piece. I am the thing that finishes a mystery, the solitary trinket hinting strongly of Atlantis. The 'it' of childhood games. I am alone. Dr. Creep, leave me alone.