Every now and then, it seemed like she opened her mouth and two voices came out.

The first would caress her breath against the shuddering sails of course canvas. Her whistle-like tone swirled around me, so light that I had to close my eyes just to hear it. On those days I would lounge on the glistening wood, letting the sun’s rays trace down my half-naked body. The lazy ebb and flow of the ocean around me rocked my susceptive mind into a half-dazed doze. On those days when the sun shone a bit too bright, I would press a cold beer can to my extended neck, letting the condensation slowly roll down my shoulder. Those were the days I loved most.

Then, there was the second voice. I always knew when she was coming, her eyes would darken causing a rage of anguish to overtake her. Tears of sorrow fell through the darkened haze. Her voice boomed louder, each beat a drum intumescing across the crashing towers of snowcapped waves. Her breath was angry and restless as it whipped around me, tearing at my cheeks and battered sail.

But as I grip the hurling boat, my eyelashes blurring with fleeting tears. I look up to the swirling descent of madness in her eyes. I pray for it to be over, that the fury may at last cease. Waves crash against the restless hull, even with the cries of cracking wood she doesn’t stop her paroxysm. I never stop glaring at her even when the swirling pools of anxious anguish overtake take me. When the beguiling hands of torment lash out their puppet strings twirling and tossing my body around the anarchic stage, I never stop. When water, at last, fills my lungs, still I gaze at her, her darkened eyes melting darker into the abyss of my unconscious mind.