This was not what he intended when he first started calling her "Albatross." He didn't plan on it, nor did he ever even think about it.

…okay maybe once or twice, but he never thought he'd actually go through with it.

She was forbidden. Off-limits. Prohibited. And he was one sick dirty son of a whore for letting himself even entertain the idea. He was worse for letting it happen.

She's the one that started it. But then again, he's the one that didn't fight it, not for a second. He simply gave in and didn't look back.

Not when she kissed him.

Not when she pulled him away from the bridge towards his bunk.

Not when she locked the hatch.

And definitely not when she pushed him onto his bed with a wanton look in her eyes.

The poem says: "Instead of the cross, the Albatross

About my neck was hung."

He did wear a silver cross once. That was years back and that cross—with his faith—was long gone. You do the math.

There his albatross was, arms wrapped around his neck, soundly sleeping draped across him in a tangle of naked and sheets.

Funny thing was, as much as he hated himself for it, he didn't regret a single jot and in no way was his albatross a burden. It wouldn't be. She wouldn't be.

Not in the morning.

Not when Simon beat him up.

Not when he atoned for it in the afterlife.

Not ever.

She was his albatross and she was better than a gorram cross. She was going to stay right there hanging from his neck no matter how wrong or immoral it seemed.

Everyone needs a good dose of wrong every now and again.

He needed her.

His wrong.

His sin.

His albatross.

His River.