One January Morning, Part 7
As the lady pirate drove off, she adjusted the rear-view mirror and caught a glimpse of her eye patch. It was the first time she’d seen it for herself and the small piece of black leather made her flinch harder than any sword had ever done. As did the scar that began a half-inch above her eyebrow and continued, at a diagonal, underneath the eye patch and down across her cheek. She shuddered to think of what the eyeball looked like, for it was still there—she could feel it—however useless it was. She imagined a cloudy blue iris, like her father’s own dead eye, which had always put her in mind of a dull marble. But there would be a chunk missing, she decided. Yes, where the knife had cut her, there would be an indent tying the two halves of her scar together.
She rubbed at her forehead, that lady pirate. And then, quite suddenly, she looked to the heavens and shouted, “I have a name, you piece of shit!”
And she was quite right. But I hope you will forgive me and understand—in a way that she never could—that my decision to keep her unnamed to this point in our tale was not a decision made out of some misogynistic malice, but was instead a choice made out of concern for you, my Dear Reader. You see, there was confusion to be had, had I named her earlier. For—and you must believe me when I tell you, no matter how odd the proposition might be—her name, like that of your narrator and of our false protagonist now dead and gone, was also—yes, you guessed it—Morgan.
To be continued…