I half open one eye, casting a curious glance to the opening of the cave where I took shelter last night, and shiver. Though it’s warm on the island during the day, occasionally night is a different story. Once the sun sets, we occasionally have colder temps. Fortunately, it remained warm for most of last night, but it seems a cold front trickled in while I was sleeping. The good news was, I didn’t have to build a fire. I didn’t want to. Smoke from any fire I build could identify my location.
I’ll have to eventually, though.
Christ. It was bad enough when all of us were here. Six of us, military, joining forces to survive on an island in the middle of fucking nowhere. The battle for food, water, and shelter, the three most fundamental necessities for survival, was difficult but made easier when we banded together to overcome the elements.
But that was a long, long time ago. When? I have no idea. When I try to ask myself how long I’ve been here, my mind grows hazy and uncertain. The man in our number who took record of the passing of time died months ago, and none of us took it up again. It unsettles me not to know the answer, so I force myself not to dwell on it.
The days, weeks, and months—hell, it could even be years—follow one another like the inevitable dripping of a faucet. Drip. Drip. Drop. Monotonous. Demoralizing. Fucking exhausting.
I asked all the questions. I got few answers. And that was when we first arrived here. Back when the other men were my allies. Back before the little we had was stripped from us and the men around me grew savage and wild.
There were six of us.
Now there are three.
I think there are three, anyway. Fuck it, who knows. While I’ve been holed up in this cave, we could’ve lost another. Maybe both of them even.
Maybe I’m all alone.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Does a man alone on an island eventually go mad? He would have to, wouldn’t he? Humans aren’t meant to live in stark isolation. I guess I’d make the most of it if I were alone, though. At least I wouldn’t have to fight them for the last goddamn crab or whatever the fuck.
I sit up when the gnawing hunger in my belly propels me forward. I haven’t eaten in days—I think, I mean who the fuck knows—but I’ve adamantly insisted on staying hydrated. Still, the hunger comes in waves. When I ignore the pangs, they eventually go away again, and I feel almost empowered, because I’m still here. I’m still breathing. I didn’t succumb to death.
Or did I? Have I died and this is some form of hell?
No. No.
I close my eyes and breathe in and out. I’m still very much fucking alive.
But at the back of my mind, I do wonder.
We found the rotting skeleton of the first man we lost shortly after we landed here. He was the most selfish bastard in the group, refusing to do the hard work of banding together and finding resources that would keep us alive. He insisted he would find a way off this island. Insisted he wouldn’t stop until he did.
We don’t know how he died. But it doesn’t matter. In the end, the human body is far more fragile than one might think.
I would know.
I look around the cave and see something flapping around to my left. Bats. If they provided any sustenance at all, I’d catch the fuckers. Hell, I still might.
I push myself to my feet and find my legs a bit wobbly. I curse under my breath. Though the man I was before I landed here fades a bit more with each passing day, I know one thing’s unchanged: I despise any show of weakness and always will.
So, one more time, I push myself forward. I’ll find something to eat if it kills me. I just wish the motherfuckers I’m on this island with weren’t lying in wait to kill me in the meantime.
We started out strong, all of us. But bit by motherfucking bit, as everything we needed was stripped away, the men began to turn on one another, like Lord of the Fucking Flies.
I blink at the early morning light at the entrance to the cave and take in a deep, cleansing breath. No matter where I am or how long I’ve been here, one thing remains the same: the island is beautiful in the morning.
Fingertips of golden sunlight paint the miles of blue-green ocean surrounded by white sand as far as the eye can see. The faintest wisps of clouds dotting the sky like dandelions, breathe to scatter the seeds, and you can make a wish.
Like a sentimental fool, I gather in a breath and blow it out, pretending I’m earning a wish.