To Whomever may find this,
Hear ye, you must speak. Make your voice be heard, Be not indifferent. Silence has a price. Do not let your opinion or ideas be drowned in the ocean of the masses. Multitudes may share an opinion but that does not always make it right. Do not forfeit your right to express your beliefs because others do not share it. That is not living, it is conforming, it is surviving. Let your voice be heard, lest you live with regret for the rest of your days…
The Price of Silence
Pain. Guilt. Tears. It’s my fault. I should have…The tears begin their descent… I should have spoken up... The tears reach the edge of my lips, they taste salty... like the sea... I’m haunted, I haven’t slept in years, the rum no longer numbs the pain. I should have... I... I.
Cries. I hear cries. Not cries of pain or fear. Not yet. At first, I heard cries of peace. The cries came from the sky. The cries of seagulls accompanied by the song of the sea, a periodic crash of waves on the rocks of the shore. True peace. I open my eyes and find it hard to see, due to the sleep dust that’s gathered within them. As I sit up and brush them away, my sight begins to adjust. I find myself in a small cabin surrounded by four walls of brown logs upon logs. There isn’t much in here, in terms of furniture, with only a plastic chair coupled with a table and a cloth that served as my place of rest. Simple things for a simple man, I’d say. That’s when I noticed the dual caramel flintlocks holstered on my chest and two cutlasses an arm’s breadth from where I rested. Not so simple after all. Light was peering through the small gap that was my window, and as I rose up and looked beyond it, I could only smile. The sun was slowly ascending the sky and its light illuminated the dark blue sea. I gathered and equipped my weapons and almost forgot the hat, why do I always forget the hat? I reached for the black leather tricorn hat and donned it. I headed into town for breakfast, armed to the tooth for war because mate, I’m a pirate.
The town was filled with its usual activity. I had recently moved here involuntarily. The product of a shipwreck off the east coast of the island. I attributed my survival as a sign that I should start my life anew, seeing as my shipmates were swallowed into the depths of the sea. Be a different man. Turn away from piracy. These were my goals, but it would prove to be difficult. From the roof of a two-story building, I watched the townspeople. The very people who sought to see me dead. Merchants sold their wares, beggars roamed the streets, the pub was already open, priests preached their sermons from wooden platforms and children ran around causing havoc, pretending to be pirates, as the people went about their day. Officers from New England were high in attendance this morning, making their rounds of Nassau town. They were looking for me, I could feel it. Wanted posters hung from all nearby establishments with other countless pirates but none with my bounty. 500 gold pieces for the capture, dead or alive, of the Crow. A nickname earned for my elusiveness, physical prowess, intellect and the terrible fortune that befalls the places where I am sighted. My fame speaks for itself. As I squatted to gather a better view of my surroundings, I heard a thump to my right. In a flash, I unholstered and drew my flintlock in one fluid motion, pointing at the noise. I moved my head slowly only to find an old man on a balcony beside me. He had dropped his clothes and his face was as pale as moonlight. Amid the clothes was a lone paper, with an image of yours truly.
I don’t want to remember. I gulped down more rum when I awakened from my reverie. I want to make it stop. Of all my failures... this... this... I... I... I should have. I could have… I... I don’t want to remember... and with these thoughts, I fell prey once more to the remembrances of the past
“Yer’…. Yer’…. The…The…” the man sputtered. “Don’t. Lest you wish to meet yer maker this da..” Crow almost finished and then the man madly yelled “IT’S THE CROW, HE’S UP HERE!!”. Seething with rage, I cocked my flintlock and almost sent this man to Davy Jones’ Locker when I remembered my shipmates, my survival, my second chance and I fled. I jumped off the roof and landed in a squat. Slowly, I rose, drew my cutlasses and lifted my face for the world to see. Awe, wonder but most of all, fear was prevalent in the faces of the people. Four British soldiers began to approach me, appeasing the masses, attempting to flank me. That’s when I saw her. A woman. She waved to me from the entrance to the pub astride a horse. I had never seen anything like her. I’ve seen my share of treasure but not even the pearls of oysters emitted the radiance she did. Her scream snapped me out of my daze only to find the soldiers commencing their coordinated strike on me. I blocked one of the soldier’s blades on the right with my own and quickly struck him with the pommel of my right blade. I reflexively ducked into a squat and thrusted with my left, piercing one in the leg. The last two rushed at me simultaneously and slashed at me from either side forcing me to roll forward between them, evading their attack. I launched into a somersault and twisted, holding the blades perpendicular to my body, slashing both in their back. I quickly turned and rushed towards the maiden on the white horse, who will no doubt aid my escape, as other British soldiers appeared and pursued me. I mounted the horse and sat behind her. A light kick from the woman caused the horse to burst into a full gallop, unleashing its frightening speed. The wind that blew, much like the gales of a hurricane, dislodged my hat and only barely did I manage to catch it. We reached a small cottage on the outskirts of town and we dismounted. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?” I asked. “Well, Master Crow, you can call me Raven. An admirer.” She said. “Oh, an admirer? I owe you my life, milady.” I said. I leaned in for a kiss and she returned it, hugging me tightly. Raven was my wife. We had met a long time ago in Havana. She came from a very wealthy British family, her father was a governor or other, and she was a schoolteacher at the time. As for how we met…well I burst into her classroom during a raid I led on Havana. Strictly the plunder of gold. I found myself in a tight spot and had to resort to indecent methods. I took her hostage and was granted safe passage out of the harbor. The deal that was struck required me to put her on a boat once we were out of range of their cannons. I didn’t. They pursued. I got away. The tale about how Raven’s unrelenting hatred turned into unconditional love is one for another day. We had managed to keep our relationship a secret. How could the infamous Crow be married? Raven loved me for who I was. She always attempted to dissuade from this life, saying there was redemption, pardons for us pirates but I never relented. I was a man of the sea; how could I be confined to the land? She always brought the discussion up when I came to visit, and when she did, I relented. This visit wasn’t voluntary after all, and I recounted the tale of what happened to her. The joy on her face spoke volumes, the hope for a better life, a stable life, a family, it was all so much but it felt right. Days turned to weeks, and life in Nassau was bearable. I had changed my looks entirely I tended to land and harvested crops, which Raven later sold in town. I rarely left the cottage, and when I did, I only did so at dusk or nightfall. Raven couldn’t have been more overjoyed. She was with child and we were living a better life, a stable life. Being away from the sea took its toll on the mind and I would occasionally sneak to the shoreline to reminisce about the pirating days. One morning, like any other, I woke up and to find Raven gone. On a table lay a note addressed to me “I decided to head into town early to sell the crops because it’s our anniversary! I’ll see you tonight, my love!”. She was special. I went about my day, tending to the land and found myself with one of the urges to head into town and so I did. It seemed highly active this evening. I cautiously walked around the establishments, and no one gave me a second look. I went into the market district to see if Raven was there, but our stall was empty, and it seemed she had gone home. As I was exiting town there was a commotion, and the masses were gathered at the center of town. I hadn’t seen this in a while. It was a hanging. They were hanging those accused of piracy, theft, murder and more. I was towards the back of the gathering. The root of the commotion made sense once I heard what the woman being tried, who was gagged, bloodied and barely standing was accused of. “Witchcraft!” the man yelled. No reasons or evidence were given that this young woman was a witch and the people decided she was to be hanged. It was injustice. It was unfair. I convinced myself it wasn’t my problem. The woman cried and begged weakly and the masses ridiculed her. I knew this was wrong, but the bloodlust of the masses was insatiable. What could I possibly do to change this outcome? Minutes later, the woman was hung. I watched. I felt terrible, I was a thief of the highest order, a pirate, but this, this was wrong. I felt sick, so I decided to head home. When I got home, the cottage was dark, exactly as I had left it. I went inside and called out for Raven, but she wasn’t there. I went to the shoreline, checked the pub and the market district once more but nothing. I was now in the center of the town and it was dark. I felt fear, I was worried. What could have happened to Raven? Surely, she left early, but there are no traces of her whereabouts. The moon emerged from the cover of the clouds and lit up the town. I realized I was standing beneath those that were hanged today. I turned around and looked closely at the woman. It was Raven. Shock. Then, pain followed, and the most inhumane shriek was heard in Nassau town that night. Wracked with wrath, pain, and regret. This was the price of indifference. This was the cost of standing and watching. This was the price of silence.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from writers in Humans and other communities.
Autonomy Is The Real Privilege
Good morning, freedom-seekers! Today we’re gonna be looking at autonomy. A strange word, I know; one many would probably look at blankly and run away from on sight. We’re gonna figure out what it actually means, consider how it’s achieved, and decipher just how deeply most of us are tangled up in dependence without realising it.
By That ‘Freedom’ Guy2 days ago in Humans
An Attempt to Break People’: Bucha Holds Out Amid Russia’s Weaponisation of Winter
After four years of conflict, the city that became infamous in 2022 for the atrocities of Russian occupation is facing a different kind of battle. This time, the enemy is winter, weaponised by deliberate attacks on power grids, heating systems, and basic infrastructure. For residents, survival has become a daily struggle — and a test of resilience. Bucha’s Legacy of Survival Bucha is no stranger to suffering. During the early months of Russia’s invasion, the world was horrified by images of civilian massacres, abandoned homes, and streets lined with the evidence of violence. The city became a symbol of wartime atrocity. Now, though the guns have quieted somewhat, a new kind of pressure is emerging. Russian forces have deliberately targeted energy infrastructure, knowing that winter’s arrival would magnify the damage. Power plants, heating systems, and water facilities have been hit, leaving homes dark and cold, hospitals under strain, and schools struggling to function. For locals, this is not just an attack on infrastructure — it’s an attack on morale. It’s a calculated effort to make life unbearable, to test whether people will stay or flee, and to try to break the community from within. Life in the Dark Power outages have become a grim part of daily life. Residents report long stretches without electricity, traffic lights left dark, and homes turning into icy shells. Oleksandr Bartkov, owner of a local café, shares how daily business now depends on limited hours of electricity. “Of the eight or nine hours we usually operate, we might only have three or four hours of power,” he says. When a major strike occurred during a severe cold snap, Bartkov’s café stayed closed for days. Like many small businesses, they survive on generators — if they work — or close entirely. It’s not just businesses that suffer. Families huddle under blankets in freezing apartments, rationing food and water while the cold seeps into walls and floors. The winter is no longer just a season; it is a weapon, deployed against ordinary people. Weaponising Winter Officials describe these attacks as deliberate. By targeting energy infrastructure during the harshest months, Russian forces are not only cutting off electricity but also aiming to undermine the mental and physical resilience of communities like Bucha. Mayor Anatolii Fedoruk explains that even though Bucha’s electrical grid is relatively modern and distributed, the repeated strikes have severely strained its capacity. “Russia knew the severe frost was coming, and they wanted to hit the power plants,” Fedoruk says. This strategy is about more than freezing people’s homes. It’s psychological warfare, designed to make civilians feel vulnerable, unsafe, and powerless. It’s a chilling reminder that in modern conflict, energy systems can become as critical a battleground as any frontline. The Human Toll The effects on daily life are profound. In shelters, displaced families huddle in rooms warmed by generators or improvised heaters. Walls are thin, kitchens cold, and nights unbearably long. Vitalina Tsisar, a shelter manager, recalls nights when the generator failed and temperatures inside dropped near freezing. Children stayed in hats and coats, parents tried to keep spirits up, but the fear of the cold was constant. “It makes people afraid,” Tsisar says. “When it is this cold outside, you feel yourself freezing.” Hospitals and schools are also under pressure. With power and heating interrupted, critical services struggle to function. Even small inconveniences, like a broken refrigerator or a darkened hallway, become magnified threats in winter. Government Response and International Aid The Ukrainian government has declared a state of emergency, warning that energy reserves are dwindling and calling for international assistance. President Volodymyr Zelenskyy has stressed the need for preparedness and warned of the dangers of continued attacks. Experts describe the assault on infrastructure as part of a broader strategy — one that targets civilians indirectly to weaken resistance. Energy analyst Oleksandr Kharchenko puts it bluntly: “This is an attempt to break people.” International aid has provided some relief, from temporary shelters and heaters to emergency fuel for generators. But the scale of the attacks, combined with harsh winter conditions, makes the crisis ongoing and unpredictable. Resilience in the Cold Despite these enormous challenges, the people of Bucha are standing firm. History has taught them resilience. When Russian troops first occupied the city, they endured occupation, resistance, and ultimately liberation. Now, with winter turned into a weapon, the city is proving that its spirit is not so easily broken. Neighbors check on one another, communities share generators, and children still play in the snow, bundled in coats and hats. Streets may be dark, shops may be closed, and nights may be freezing, but life continues. The cold may freeze the city physically, but it cannot freeze the will of its people. A Message Beyond Bucha Bucha’s struggle is a stark reminder that war does not only involve guns and tanks. It can be fought in the silence of a blackout, the drop of a thermometer, and the slow creep of frost into homes. But it also shows the extraordinary human capacity to endure, adapt, and survive. In a winter weaponised against them, Bucha continues to hold out. And in doing so, the city sends a powerful message: oppression may try to break people, but resilience can shine even in the darkest, coldest hours.
By Muhammad Hassan5 days ago in Humans
The Path to Salvation
The late autumn evening air filled the monk's lungs, but it wasn't the season that chilled his bones. The heavy-handed presence of evil he had sensed upon entering the woods surrounding this mountain village had not bothered to conceal itself from him.
By Made in DNAabout 5 hours ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.