Up north on the island lies several jagged, sharp cliffs. The steep incline leads to a cluster of trees that drift down towards a dense, tightly packed forest, one so thick that the setting sun’s rays are barely able to poke through. Seagulls fly above the beach, lingering around the shoreline to scavenge for crabs or oysters. Seaweed clings to the towering rocks receiving the brunt force of the waves that leave thick foam on the jagged coral reefs, where barnacles and starfish lay.
Footprints litter the white sand. They go from the shoreline to the base of the cluster of palm trees just near the clearing leading into the jungle. The black remains of the fireplace are now completely covered in sand and dirt.
A pile of broken tree branches are near a small hole. The sound of wood scraping against each other are the only sound in the humid air. Ellison’s shadow hovers near the thick tree branches, where crickets chirp. His breaths are heavy as he continues to apply more friction, between the stick and the flat wooden base he selected from a decaying log. A shooting, gruesome pain shoots up through his left palm as the stick snaps.
”Aaaaaaagghhhhhhhhhhhh!”
Blood flows down his wrist and drips on his leg. Ellison bends over, gritting his teeth, before limping over to the beach, submerging his hand into the waves. As the surface of the water becomes red, he winces in pain once a dreadful stinging settles over the gaping wound. Dizziness settles over him as he wraps a decent strip of seaweed over it. He’d never craved aspirin as much as this moment. He sits on the beach for a moment in the warm sand, deciding to find a better stick.
Over the horizon, the sky becomes a deep, gray color. Ellison scrambles his feet, hugging his arms tighter as waves begin to grow rougher. Lightning forks the thick clouds, followed by an abrupt bolt of thunder. In great despair, he looks around as light rain drops begin to crescendo harder and harder until there is a downpour. Mud clings to his naked body as he attempts to seek shelter under a few trees, but that does little to combat the gusts of wind that send cold water his way.
The ground quickly becomes submerged with water, and all his collected firewood quickly becomes washed away. He grabs his photo. In the increasing darkness, the young man stumbles further into the jungle—flashes of lightning only partially lighting his path. One of the palm trees catches ablaze from a lightning bolt, its burning branches breaking off and falling below. A great deal of mud and rocks come tumbling from a great distance. Ellison is sinking further into the earth. He grips the nearby branches—anything, even though his left hand is killing him, and the blood has not stopped. The scent of iron mixes with soil.
After blindly wandering around with water pouring down his hair and face, he discovers a small opening under a large tree. Crouching below, he squeezes himself into the bark’s cavity in the fetal position, tightly hugging his legs. The wind can’t reach him as much here, and the water only reaches his ankles. He rests his chin on his knees, gasping for air.
Okay, okay, okay. It’s not so bad. Really. I just have to find some dry wood, start a fire, and keep it going until someone sees it. How bad can it be, actually? Planes and helicopters pass this area every once in a while. It’s inevitable. He exhales and leans his head against the damp bark. I’ll be home before I know it. And I’ll make sure those guys will pay. I’ll make it so they never see the light of day again. Especially that John bastard.
Satisfied with this plan, Ellison tries to close his eyes. The damp photograph is clutched began his hands. But the continuous thunder and sound of falling trees continue to keep him awake. He’s not sure if he manages to fall asleep or not, because when he looks out through the opening of the tree, the sky is pink and purple. It’s still very dark outside.
He steps out. The morning air is still very frigid, and he would kill for a blanket and dry clothes just about now. Beads of water drip from the ends of his blonde hair, and he examines the mess of strewn branches, rocks, and muddied palm leaves. Cursing under his breath, he kicks aside a stick.
* * * * * * * *
It’s too damp to start a fire.
Ellison’s left hand is still incredibly sore, but it at least has begun to scab over. He can’t open coconuts that well anymore, and has to resort to throwing them against a boulder just to crack their shells a bit. These don’t seem to have enough water in them. The humidity of the air settles above, before the blazing heat of the sun arrives. With his fingers, Ellison tilts the leaves over just to catch a bit of moisture to land into his tongue. His lips are so dry and cracked they start bleeding and stinging. He spies a muddy puddle nearby, and, throwing himself to the ground, he scoops it up with both palms to his mouth, taking long, deep sips.
His stomach starts acting up, like someone is twisting it from the inside. Doubled over in pain behind a thick bush, he clenches his jaw. His bowels declare rebellion as gnats and flies draw closer. It makes no sense to him; he hasn’t eaten anything for nearly two days, with only a handful of saltine crackers from the party. It takes nearly an hour for everything to pass through. With his left bare foot, he kicks a great deal of soil over the mess and stumbles through the jungle. Several times he trips over the roots and rocks jutting over the ground, causing deep gashes and callouses to form over his soles.
Water. That was all he could think of.
By nightfall, Ellison could see fire flies appearing and disappearing into the air. How was it night already? He had just woken up. Maybe the hours were moving faster here than in Florida. Maybe he was in a different time zone. When he trips and falls again, this time, be does not get up. His face is halfway covered in dirt. His bloodshot blue eyes focus on a strange, round shape. With the remaining strength he has left, he reaches out and slowly takes it. An empty, flat turtle shell.
Thunder rumbles above.
A faint smile gradually crosses Ellison’s lips. He does not move, his bones at one with the chocolate earth. Fresh drops of water land on his skin, and he holds the turtle shell directly outright. Once it is filled to the brim, he guzzles it down, letting the cold, fresh water course through his dry throat and mouth. He opens his mouth wide enough. He hopes to catch every drop. He slowly smiles again.
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* * * * * * * *
Mud cakes to Ellison’s naked body as he drags several palm leaves from the beach. On a rock lies several broken coconuts, next to the turtle shell and the wrinkled photograph. His bare feet dangle from a tree as he continues to break apart the branches with his hands, sending them crashing down below. The sun has bleached his hair nearly white. Even though he scratched tally marks into the ground, he’s beginning to lose track of how many days he’s been here. Night and day keep blending into each other so much.
Ellison gently runs his fingers over the visible scar on his left palm. There are several yellow bumps on both hands. Callouses. He’s never had them before, but seen them on the hired help’s hands whenever they mopped or dusted or washed the dishes in his home. His had bled a lot at first, then stopped, then opened up again. He licks the blood off and continues wrestling with the thin branches. Leaves float below and get caught in his hair.
Once he has a decent pile, he jumps down onto the warm sand below. Sweat drips down his neck and back as he lifts the bundle over his shoulder and carries them over the spot where he’s decided to build his camp. It’s about a couple miles away from the beach, but the area has plenty of shade, where hopefully the winds from the tropical storms do not come up too often. After dropping them down on the ground, he bends over.
Every muscle in Ellison’s body is aching. He’s barely gotten a lick of sleep, either. He lays out each stick on the damp ground in front.
“Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve—” His voice belongs to someone else. It is timid and shaky, while also low and raspy. “I think…I think I have enough. Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”
He licks his dried lips. His fingers reach for a misshaped rock, which he uses to nail down into the soil with each wooden stick. The pounding sound echoes through the trees. Although it is windy, the foundation for the wall and roof are stable. He secures the top with a dozen of palm leaves and some mud, hoping they would stick to the wooden frame.
That night, the entire thing falls apart. It is a pile of leaves and dirt and wood.
He can’t sleep. There are carpenter ants and spiders all over his flesh. He keeps scratching, scratching and scratching, until his back is raw and red due to abrasions from his dirty fingernails. His hair is long and unkempt. A beard has settled over his face. He wants to make clothing with the palm leaves, just so he can lie down and close his eyes for a moment. So the ants wouldn’t bite.
* * * * * * * *
“Come on,” Ellison hoarsely whispers.
He’s been at the same spot all morning. If only he had a match. A lighter. He pauses to scratch the angry red spots on his thighs as he rotates the stick back and forth. He had bored a small hole in the board. Only one. His arms are burning, but he’s not stopping now. Nearby, the photograph of him and his father is propped up by a yellow seashell he found.
A faint whisp of smoke appears.
Beads of sweat gather around his forehead. He maintains his pace, his rhythm. More smoke appears. Gently, he places the ember into a pile of dried grass and blows. A grin crosses his face as he adds more wood and leaves to the pile. The flames start crackling as he gets to his feet. He then laughs.
”YEAHHHHHHHH!”
Ellison grabs a palm branch and swaying it back and forth. Breathing heavily, he takes off down the beach, before igniting one tree after the other. The wind blows the smoke over in distance, causing him to cough. Orange and red are reflected in his large eyes. He dances with the flames. They are such lovely colors. Soon, the plane would be able to see him.
Soon, he would be able to go home and—
The young man suddenly stands still. The burning palm branch slides from his hands, and falls onto the sand. He blinks for a moment, John’s words echoing in his mind.
You have no friends, no family.
Slowly, Ellison sits on the ground, watching the fire spread across the thick trees. He watches it devour everything in its path, causing birds to fly off and wildlife to scamper to safety. The light glows in his hair, his face. The salt water makes his nose sting a lot. He holds his head low, observing the shriveled palm branch, now reduced to nothing but ash.
* * * * * * * *
He manages to create a wooden spear.
Well, really all he did was just sharpen one end, so at least he didn’t screw that up. After testing it a few times, he heads off to the ocean. The tide is low, and its surface is clear, absorbing the sun. He shivers as he submerges himself below, his shoulder length floating around his face. He kicks his legs.
Man, he would do anything for a hamburger just about now. With extra fries and a milkshake. His private chef Gary used to make the best cheeseburger with crunchy onion rings. Ellison’s stomach rumbles. He couldn’t believe he used to yell at him because of the way he made the beef patty.
That seemed like ages ago.
Bubbles rise from his mouth as he scans the rocks and sandy floor below him. He sees a pretty silver trout, throws at it, but misses. As he rises to the surface, breathing heavily, he spits out a mouthful of salt water. He grabs his spear and heads to the shallower end, his legs sloshing in the middle of the sand. He raises his spear, catching a glimpse of another fish, before rushing forward. He trips and lands face first into the wet sand.
He only manages to find a handful of lipids from the coral reefs after several hours, which he brings back to his tiny fire and destroyed shelter. After breaking the spear in half against his leg, he tosses both pieces to the ground and heads down the shoreline, a shadow over his face.
* * * * * * *
Ellison’s fingers wrap around a conch shell that he pulls free from the sand. It is an alluring shade of white, with a unique texture. When he holds it up to his ear, he listens. He doesn’t hear the ocean. But something else. He sits down below a partially burnt palm tree to take a better look at it. His legs are toes are covered in sand. Dark seaweed is directly tangled around his right ankle. He sniffs.
The conch shell glows in the sunlight.
”What secrets do you hold?” he softly whispers. “You can trust me. I won’t tell anyone, honest. I just hope you will stay with me for a little while.” He gazes at the vast beach. “I hope we can be friends, you and I. I’m so glad you decided to talk to me. I don’t usually get company, so any is appreciated.”
His grip tightens around the conch.
“Do you come from afar? I think you were washed up here. You must’ve come from somewhere else. This is probably your second, third, or fourth stop.” Ellison’s voice wavers. “You will leave me eventually, just like everyone always does. You will go to wherever it is that you belong to.” He slowly smiles. “I hope you find your special place.”
There is an aching in his chest.
The young man deeply nods, as if the conch is speaking, before standing up and focusing on the cliffs above. He sets it down on a rock and gently pats its smooth, hard surface. Without a word, he disappears into the jungle. Dead leaves crunch beneath his blistered bare feet. His form blends into the darkness.
