Finley
Legacy Name: Finley

The smell of rotting seaweed and salt is an overpowering stench, it wraps itself around Finley's mind in a thick damp smelling cloud. She imagines the spray from waves slapping against the heaving ship washing over her, her skin cooling as the mist drenches her. Finley gazed solemnly at the horizon, her brow furrowed, she squints fiercely into her telescope, she sees nothing, annoyed, Finley collapses the telescope and furiously shoves it thru her belt. This was supposed to be a good day; any decent sea-woman knows that on good days you find land but no matter how she strained the dark smear of land continued to elude her searching gaze.

It had been months since she had last felt solid ground beneath her feet. She hadn't seen a gull in months, well, no real gulls that is. At this particular moment Finley's mind was working furiously, finding land was her foremost concern, having not landed in months Fin found herself with an empty larder, the bathroom, I mean "ship", was barren of anything edible. Finley was starving, she could count her ribs and there was a dull pain in her gums, the strain under her lips told her more then any mirror could, her gums were slowly succumbing to the dreaded scurvy. A pirates worst nightmare. Her tongue stuck painfully to the roof of her mouth, each time Finley tried prying it from her soft palette she swore she could feel the skin ripping along with it and just that morning she had lost another toot...

*knocking*.

Fin squeezed her eyes shut. Never mind that.
Just that morning, Finley had lost another toot...

*louder knocking*

The door shudders under the violent knocking.

"EXCUSE ME, MISS JONES. It's been AN HOUR. I have to get ready for a meeting. ... Miss Jones!!?"

A string of curses that would have caused the crustiest of captains to blush ends Fin's daydream. Opening her eyes, she pulls back the seagull patterned shower curtain and gingerly steps over the lip of the claw footed bathtub. She hides her cardboard "oar" and newspaper hat behind the sink and slowly opens the door. The problem with a community toilet is that there was never enough time to get into a good story, she was just about to go into detail about what scurvy was doing to her perfect gums but just like most days she was interrupted before the goin' got good.

Finley bowed her head in embarrassment as the old woman glares accusingly thru the door crack, trying to look past her. It was no secret to her neighbors what she had likely been doing for the past hour. There had been several occasions where another tenant had found her oar and newspaper pirate hat hiding behind the sink and thrown them away (fin suspected it was the platinum blond socialite who was trying to stare her down thru the door crack at this very moment, something about the woman wreaked fun killer), leaving notes reminding her what the proper etiquette for a community restroom is (mainly it is not to be used for hours of daydreaming or causing disruptions to others routines party poopers.). Anxiety made it difficult to connect with those around her so Finley had come to rely on her imagination to pass the time and bring calm to the chaotic mind of an anxious young woman living on her own for the first time. As long as she had her daydreams, her bathtub (ship), and a good lock on the door Finley felt she could make it through the day, always looking forward to the next moment she could close the shower curtain and open her minds eye to the ocean and endless horizon only she could see.

Profile by Apricot, Overlay by Rachel