The corruption started one evening, but Odysseus couldn’t pinpoint when exactly. He could only assume it was after the entire crew left the Underworld and made it back to the open sea. Either that, or it was shortly after Scylla’s arrival and the death of six of their men.

The king of Ithaca couldn’t seem to catch a break. Whether that be from the dwindling number of crewmen, or the talk of mutiny behind his back that he so desperately wished was a farce. All Odysseus wanted to do was confide in you.

But you weren’t yourself. You had grown bitter, full of hatred and resentment towards anyone that may have looked at you for too long. Your voice used to be so warm and inviting to listen to, now it was just cold and angry.

Odysseus hadn’t suffered enough it seemed, as once Zeus took the lives of the rest of his men and he was washed upon an island, he was woken up by you.

You were alive—that should have made Odysseus happy, but instead he was terrified. You looked as if you were ready to strangle him, to pull the remaining pieces of life he had left in them and shred them up.

The corruption had reached your eyes; they were dark, lifeless. You looked half dead, and your touch was cold. Whatever humanity was left in you was gone the moment you grabbed his tunic.

Pulled to his feet, you shook him with such force he wondered if Zeus’ lightning bolt would have been kinder.

“What have you done?!”