(TW: Slight gore, imprisonment)
Rusty sat in his cell, watching the sun rise on his 111th birthday. He’d planned to drink himself into an early grave, or die by gunfire. Something to prove what kind of man he was. Not waiting — in the cold and the dark — for his days to end. Why wouldn’t they end?
He had been a terror of the seas; captain to a ship only spoken of in whispers. When captured, Rusty requested his last rites. But there was to be no public execution. Instead, he would be the first public degradation.
He would rot away, taken out once a year and shown to the crowds. Rusty didn’t know if he was immortal. He didn’t know if there would be a day when the last strip of his flesh fell from his bones. A frame with no casing. When the frame, too, was dust… Would he somehow remain?