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Lingering Scars

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“I’m not a pirate.” Guybrush said as he mustered whatever courage that didn’t dwindle away from him. 

He tried to not pay much mind of the other pirates staring him down with a kind of thirst in their eyes as he looked at LeChuck in all of his decaying and rotting glory thanks in part to the very few sources of light in the form of candles illuminated the fearsome pirate. His body felt numb as LeChuck glared at him, feeling some kind of internal rage within his rotting body.

“Oh, so you’re not a pirate, are you?” LeChuck sneered and steeped closer to Guybrush. “Allow me to recap the last two days of your actions.” He raised a bony hand and began counting. “You abandoned your former life as an honest bait fisherman, you signed up to MY crew, you proceeded to fight off against the Anti-Pirate armada and SUNK all of their ships, taking their captain hostage on top of that humiliated defeat Marley went through, fought a sea serpent, stole a treasured item from a tribe and most importantly... abandoned your crew for treasure.” 

Guybrush turned his head down to the floor, wanting to be literally anywhere else but here when he felt LeChuck grab him by the chin and forced him to look the decaying pirate in the eyes. “Face it boy, you have quite the pirate resume.”

He never thought he’d wish to be back on his old ship, but there he was wishing to go back to that cramped make-shift boat house.

“I... I’m not a pirate! I’m not doing this!” Guybrush declared, more out of nerves and fear then confidence, really, but otherwise determined.

LeChuck growled. “Enough of this.” His facade broke and snapped his fingers as Guybrush felt various bony hands grab a hold of him, preventing him from running. He struggled desperately to get away, to have their firm hold on him break as LeChuck began pulling out a sharp and gleaming dagger from his coat, roughly gripping Guybrush’s thin wrists and yanked it towards him.

“N...no no! Stop!” He pleaded, seeing his hand being held over the unknown concoction the woman was brewing. Desperately, he tried pulling his hand back only to feel the dagger cut painfully and almost deeply across his palm.

Guybrush sat up in his bed, covered in sweat and panting with a shaking hand over his chest, feeling just how rapidly his heart was beating. He tried taking in deep breaths, trying to calm himself from that horrible nightmare by saying to himself internally that it was just that - a nightmare.

He rubbed the heel of his shaky hand over his eyes, feeling it sting for some reason when he caught a glimpse of the palm of his left hand.

It made his stomach churn just from the sight of the pink scar across his palm. As much as he was telling himself that it was all a nightmare, seeing it there in all of it’s jagged glory was a reminder that it wasn’t.

Guybrush leaned his head back against the headboard of his bed, cradling the scarred hand and looking up at the wooden ceiling. This is seventh night in a row that I had this nightmare, he thought. Seventh night in a row with no sleep. He rubbed his face again and looked out at the window, seeing the telltale signs of the sky that the sun would pop up in a few hours.

Well, he figured, no point trying to go back to sleep... not when he was there ready to cut his hand again.