We’ve been on this ship for, what seems like, years. I’ve been my crew’s hostage for, again, years. I don’t know the day or the date — I’m keeping track of my time in captivity by marking the wall. It’s bleak and depressing but I fear I’ll lose my mind if I don’t mark time somehow. Plus, my crew either doesn’t know how to use a calendar or is playing evil tricks on me. They keep telling me “it’s January the 81st”. Honestly, they may be right — I don’t even know any more. January the 81st sounds about right.
It seems that they will never leave me alone. Their most recent torture involves accompanying me on my daily chores of the ship. Not only have they let the laundress go and insisted I take over her duties, but now I must wash and fold with an audience. It’s daunting and, more than once, I’ve sorted things incorrectly and been scolded harshly. There is an expectation for a quick turnaround. They all have their favorite apparel and, if it’s not washed and ready for them when they want it, heads roll. Well, my head rolls.
Of course my most major role is in the kitchen. I believe I served no less that 300 meals today for a crew of 5. We are not a big ship but you wouldn’t know it from what’s in the walk-in fridge. Or, what’s not in the walk-in, I suppose. I used to command this ship and now my domain is the kitchen sink. I rule it with a gloved fist. How the mighty have fallen!
Tomorrow is a new day. What the date will be? I have no idea.
