Unseen Messages(93)

The other night, Galloway had been discussing the children’s birthdays as Pippa was turning eight soon. He’d let it slip that his was only a few weeks after hers.

I’d hoped rescue would be their gift. However, if fate wasn’t that kind, I had plans to make the softest, comfiest blanket I could for both of them.

My technique of rotting the strands until they were pliable worked. The overall result gave us something to drape without being stiff and scratchy. And I’d already thought up new ways on how to refine the concept with scraping the filaments before soaking, thrashing them, bruising them. Experiments that would hopefully yield something better.

Apart from the overheard conversation, we didn’t discuss our previous lives often. Some unspoken agreement existed that those memories would only depress us, and for now...we were different people (stranded, wild, and entirely dependent on the land) and no longer city dwellers with bankcards or phone numbers.

It didn’t mean I stopped believing in gift giving and appreciation. The past month, Galloway had morphed from my friend into my confidant, rock, and brother. The way he watched me with cobalt-blue arrows ensnared my heart until it beat only for him.

Most days, he hid his dark pain, smiling and interacting, showing only a muscular islander with long chocolate hair, sable eyelashes, and a mouth that entranced me whenever he talked.

But some days, he looked as if he’d been up all night drinking, hung over with whatever he’d done in his past, buried beneath guilt and disgrace. Those days, I fell for him more. Because those days made me see the truth.

He wasn’t just a man. He wasn’t the tatty clothes he wore or the unkempt emotions he hid. He was mine. And I wanted him more than anything.

But not once had he forced me to face my feelings. He no longer avoided me. He chatted with me, laughed with me, discussed new ways to harvest water and store supplies. He walked with me (or rather limped with me) on nights I wanted to stroll with no messy undertones and helped with chores with no anger or hidden contempt.

He was the perfect gentleman.

But one thing was missing.

I wasn’t proud of my actions. I hated myself for turning him down with no explanation. But I couldn’t help it. I’d denied myself what I wanted. Not because of some stupid decision, but because of a bonafide fear of getting pregnant. Despite the length of time here, my periods hadn’t stopped. I could still give birth.

Maybe once they stop?

But they might never stop. We might scavenge and hunt enough that my body never ceased being fertile.

Galloway didn’t know my fears, and my terror didn’t stop me from growing wet or watching him every second I could. Some mornings, I’d pretend to be asleep just to catch a glimpse of his morning erection as he stood. I gawked when he came out of the ocean in his black boxer-briefs, and one day, when I’d been in the tide with Conner and Pippa and he’d been on his own up the beach, I’d caught him naked, slipping commando into his board-shorts. The size and shape of him had clenched my core until I could’ve come with the slightest touch.

The throbbing desire drove me mad. I became tongue-tied whenever he was near because all I could think of was sex, sex, sex.

I’d tried to hug him the night we ate octopus and told ghost stories around the fire. I’d gathered the courage to touch him as a friend and hoped I was strong enough to keep it platonic.

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.