The boat bleeds, it seeps out of the hull in rivets, pooling in between the boards collecting in each grain, staining the boots of the men on deck.
They run about oblivious to the quickly growing mess. It’s not just the color, it’s the smell, a horrid mix of rotting wet meat suffocates the air, it mixes with the salt of the sea air in a rancid concentration.
It’s warm too, like a butchers shop. Hamish could feel it under his leather boots, in his socks & crawling up his legs like hands begging to end this suffering.
He wanted to vomit, to scream, to beg the men to stop running atop the wood! that they were hurting it! That each step caused more blood to gush from the spongy wood that flexed under foot like flesh! But they acted as if the blood didn’t exist at all, that they were wet they felt under their boots was the sea & the rain hailing upon them.
So they kept their zealous running on the open wounds of the boat & when they did the noises became worse. A horrid jagged, wet squishing from the deck & the screams from all around. That dull pitchy ringing from the planks that got louder & louder & louder.
Hamish tried covering his ears but it couldn’t silence it. His head pounded, his brain felt like swelling cotton as his hands pressed his ears harder & harder against his head. His eyes felt like they were going to bulge from his sockets from the swelling.
The bleeding, the screaming, the rocking, the swelling. It’s too much! it’s not enough! the men are not enough! their not doing enough! The wood is begging to return home, Hamish must do something.
