Fever Ship
The drinks keep coming as the others leave the food hall. The space is middle-sized, fitting around 30 guests or a couple of families onboard. I have never seen my dad this drunk; he can't stop laughing as he takes off his glasses to rub the tears off his face. Loud cutlery clatters, echoing a symphony of broken instruments.
There are no windows in the dining hall. Bare, aged cream-colored walls surround us. A wide mirror stretches over the longest wall, luring me into staring at my reflection and the other guests in all of our glory as my table finishes yet another bottle of champagne.
A pair of elderly couples next to us gets up and leaves. They walk slowly towards the monumental double doors at the end of the hall and vanish. I wonder if I will ever remember them.
A neatly dressed faceless waiter asks if I would enjoy another glass of mediocre champagne as he pours it into my cup. I have no option but to indulge, and by now I don't enjoy it anymore. I take it.
Minutes pass. I find myself on the other side, past the heavy double doors. An empty bottle is clenched in my left hand, and I cannot recall fetching it. I stumble through the narrow hallways looking for a place of disposal. Now, alone, I begin to explore the floating construction I have inhabited for a couple of days.
The service parts of the vessel are strikingly different from the guests' parts. The hallways are painted in this industrial sour yellow with a faint gloss; the overhead lights are harsh, and every step resonates through the endless steel hull. I can feel the sea below me - massive, moving, living.
I don't remember when I last encountered someone. I have been roaming through these tunnels to a point where the space around me seems entirely foreign, and time escapes notice. I don't remember the ship being this big.
Folding a corner, I encounter a door, sealed shut by a heavy latch that appears to have been last engaged generations ago. This one is different from the rest, and maybe it'll lead me back to where I came from. My heart pounds as I approach the door and pull the latch up against my body's own weight; tiny droplets form at my hairline. A loud creaking metallic sound rings through the hull like a screaming beast, followed by a gush of wind, then nothing.
Immense, pitch black, the sea reveals itself through the small gap that slowly creeps open. As I step outside, the deafening silence of the steel hallways ceases, overtaken by the soft, rolling wind of the night sea. The harder I stare into the abyss, the less I can make anything out of it. All is gone. The drinks, the guests, the red marks on my father's face, and even the ship itself. Nothing but the sea, and what is left of me, remains.