The salt spray, a bitter kiss, always dragged me back. Back to the screams, the inferno, the day black sails stole my boyhood. Six years old – a lifetime etched in the phantom reek of burning wood.
Gone, the laughter of friends. Gone, the comforting scent of Mama's cooking. Gone, the gentle lullaby of the waves, replaced by the guttural snarls of those… monsters.
Terror, a glacial fist, had clutched my small heart. The black flags, skull and crossbones mocking the clear dawn as they swelled, drew closer.
"Papa, what are those?" My small hand tugged his worn fishing tunic, a trembling finger pointing.
His smile vanished, a grim line tightening his mouth. "Pirates, Lazarus. Inside, now. Go to your mother."
His voice, usually a warm harbor, was taut with dread. I didn't grasp it then. Pirates were just tales, weren't they? Spooky whispers to tame unruly children.
But they weren't stories. They were real. And they were here.
Chaos erupted, a storm unleashed. Shouts tore through the tranquil air, the clang of steel a horrifying symphony. Our wooden gates splintered under their brutal assault. Mama and I huddled behind the flimsy table, her arms a tight cage around me, her body trembling.
"It's going to be alright, Lazarus," she whispered, her voice a fragile thing, tears brimming. But her gaze held a fierce, maternal shield, unwavering even in the face of oblivion.
Then, the door splintered inward. A hulking silhouette filled the fiery doorway, a rusty cutlass weeping crimson in his grasp. His eyes, wild and avaricious, swept over us.
"Well, well, what have we here?" he growled, a cruel smile twisting his lips.
That face… it haunts my waking hours. The glint of his gold tooth, the scar cleaving his left eyebrow…
Mama screamed, shoving me behind her. "Leave us! We have nothing!"
He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Everyone has something, little woman. And we'll take it."
I squeezed my eyes shut, burying my face in the familiar scent of Mama's skirt, a final sanctuary. Then, a sharp cry, a sickening thud. The warmth of her embrace vanished.
No… Mama…
The aftermath is a blur. Screams, flames licking at everything, the suffocating stench of blood and smoke. I ran, a stumbling shadow through the burning ruins of home, the faces of neighbors – old Man Alex, little Tilea with her bright ribbons – flashing in my mind, contorted in agony.
Then, strong arms lifted me. A gruff voice, edged with command, sliced through the din. "Marine here! Secure the perimeter! Anyone else alive?"
I clung to the blue uniform, my small body convulsing with sobs, words failing, comprehension lost.
"Poor lad," another voice murmured, gentler this time. "He's seen too much."
They took me aboard their ship, away from the smoldering remnants of my life. Away from everything I knew.
The orphanage was a cold space, despite the Marines' earnest efforts. Rows of identical cots, the air heavy with unspoken sorrow. Children with hollowed eyes, reflecting the void within me.
"Another one?" a wiry boy with a bandaged arm asked, his voice devoid of inflection.
A kind-faced woman with weary eyes nodded. "This is Lazarus. He… he lost his village."
The boy simply stared, his gaze knowing, understanding. "Pirates?"
A nod was all I could manage, a painful lump in my throat. What words could paint such horror?
He knew. They all knew. Each child carried invisible scars, their own tales of loss and terror.
I saw a little girl huddled in a corner, clutching a tattered doll, her eyes vacant. Pirates had taken her entire family as slaves, they said. A younger boy flinched violently at the slam of a door, a raw gash on his cheek a permanent testament to a pirate's blade.
One evening, during a meager meal consumed in silence, the wiry boy spoke again. "They… they killed my father. Took everything." His small fists clenched on the wooden table.
"They burned our farm," a girl with tear-streaked cheeks whispered. "My mother… she tried to fight them…" Her voice faded, choked with grief.
Their pain… a mirror reflecting my own. But it was also a shared weight, a collective wound inflicted by the same cruel hand.
That night, on my hard cot, staring at the ceiling, the vow solidified. Not a shout, but a silent, steely resolve hardening within me.
This will not be for nothing. Their deaths… my loss… it cannot end here. I will find them. All of them. Every single pirate. And I will kill them all.
I closed my eyes, the faces of the orphaned children filling my mind. The vacant stare of the little girl, the flinch of the scarred boy, the tear-streaked cheeks of the farmer's daughter.
I swear… I will find every last one of them. Every single pirate who preys on the weak, who steals innocence and leaves only ashes. I will hunt them down. And I will kill them all.
The years that followed were shaped by that vow. I trained with the Marines, their drills brutal, their discipline absolute. But my own inner fire burned hotter. Every push-up, every sword swing, every lesson in strategy was fueled by the searing memory of that day and the unwavering promise I made.
"You've got fire in your eyes, Lazarus," a grizzled Marine captain once observed, watching me during a particularly punishing training session. "What drives you so hard?"
I didn't recount the screams, the flames, the faces of the dead. I simply stated, my voice low and resolute, "I will make the seas safe, sir. I will kill every pirate I find so no one else should suffer like… like they have."
This isn't just about revenge anymore. It's about them. It's about the children in the orphanage, their stolen futures. It's about the countless others who have fallen victim to these monsters. I will be their sword, and that sword will taste pirate blood.
The salt spray still stings, but now it's more than a reminder of loss. It's a call to arms. The black sails may still appear on the horizon, but one day, they will be met with a force that will not yield, a force driven by the ghosts of the past and the burning desire to extinguish every single pirate life. My name is Lazarus, and I will not rest until every pirate draws their last breath.