But when I’d leaned in, he’d backed away, pouring acid on my wounds with a small shake of his head and a glow in his eyes that destroyed me.
Friends to him was no touching, no spilling of secrets, no talking of our pasts or dreams. Friendship to him was plodding through life, making tools for the camp, and ensuring we had enough food for another day.
I grieved for the ruined opportunity but stood firm on not risking our livelihood.
So far our existence worked. The sun shone and our island kept us provided for.
However, that wasn’t the case the past few days.
The sun had vanished, swallowed up by gunmetal grey clouds and a constant drizzle. Everything we owned became saturated—including ourselves—and we had nowhere to go for shelter.
Last night, we’d tried to sleep in the forest, hoping the trees would protect us, but it was useless.
During daylight, we did what was necessary: collected rainwater, hunted for another day’s ration, and carved a few twigs into chopsticks so we’d finally have utensils to use after so long with just our fingers.
But none of it made us happy.
We existed in foggy soup, lethargic and sad, staring at the sky, begging the sun to return.
My phone took forever to charge because there were no solar rays, so we had no distraction or photo entertainment; our emotions turned downtrodden. Would we ever get off this piece of dirt? Would we ever live in a city again? Would Conner and Pippa ever come to terms with their loss and live a normal life with school and friends and parties?
I spent most days by the water’s edge, glaring out to sea, battling with depression and the constant swinging emotions of incurable positivity and debilitating wretchedness.
Everyone was so brave. I hated that I was weak enough to miss home, miss toilets and roofs and restaurant-cooked meals.
Desolation built slowly but surely, drawing power from my desire to keep going. I wasn’t proud to admit it, but some days, I wanted to throw myself into the ocean and swim swim
swim.
Swim until I found someone to save us and pretend none of this was real.
But I couldn’t.
I had children who relied on me, and it was their blind faith that Galloway and I could protect them that stuffed the cloud of grief back into its padlocked box and allowed me to smile and create and pretend that this was just an adventure and not the rest of our godforsaken lives.
I did my best to teach the children on the afternoons when we rested beneath our tree. But I hadn’t applied myself at college and Galloway was cagey about his education. We weren’t scholars and I failed in teaching algebra and trigonometry when I barely remembered my own schooling.
I groaned, doing my best to get comfortable in the damp sand. The day had ended and the sky had darkened. The stars couldn’t shine, hiding their brilliant sparkle in the mist.
My bones ached and our fire spluttered and wheezed as drizzle did its best to slowly suffocate it.
For two days, we’d barely moved from the meagre warmth of the flames, waiting for the weather to switch and greyness to pass.
I’d had enough.
We couldn’t let sadness infect us.
Once we did, it would be all over.
“Come on.” I stood up, swatting at my sandy legs. “We’re doing something.”
Pippa threw a hand over her eyes, lying on her back. “I don’t wanna.”
“Too bad. We’re going to.”
Conner sat up, rubbing his face. “Do we have to?”
“Yes. Up.”
Galloway groaned. His hair covered one eye and his lips glistened with every sinful thing I wanted to do to him.
I expected an argument, but he levered himself up and grabbed his walking stick. “Come on, guys. What’s the harm? Got nothing better to do.”
In a mixture of grumbles, everyone climbed to their feet and swiped wet hair from their foreheads. Silently, they followed me to the water’s edge a little way away from the camp.
I didn’t know where I was going. I had no clue what I was doing.
Please...let me come up with something. Something therapeutic but fun.
In the weeks since the crash, we’d formed some resemblance of fun. We’d played games, told jokes. We’d scratched tic-tac-toe, a checkers board, and rudimentary snakes and ladders in the sand. For pawns, we used twigs and shells, letting the tide wipe our game board away whenever it crept up the beach.
I stopped.
That’s it!
Everyone slammed to a halt.
“So...what’s the big idea?” Conner frowned. “Come on, Stelly, I want to go back to the fire.”
“Stop whingeing.” I marched to Galloway and stole his walking stick. “May I?”
He let go of it instantly, avoiding my fingers as if I was contaminated. “By all means.”
His leg had healed enough that he could stand without support.
His splint needs to come off.
Wasn’t a normal cast about six to eight weeks (depending on how bad the break was, of course)? His had been on for twelve. I was surprised he hadn’t taken it off yet.
What if he fears the same thing I do?
The fear that he still limped, not because of the obstruction around his leg, but because of his body’s inability to heal properly?
Don’t be ridiculous. He’ll be fine.