Chapter Text
The thick, humid air breezes around me, gently stroking my damp and exposed ochre-red skin; a futile attempt to soothe weeks of accumulative sun damage. Sweat collects underneath my fur vest – mink or fox, I’m not certain – but I don’t remove it. On this island, where the days and weeks swirl into one another, and a place called England feels quite impossible, it is easy to forget I am a British boy. For that reason, I daren’t take off the coat; my only tether to society. Instead, I smooth out the fur with a calloused hand, and push my discomfort to the back of my mind.
I blink sand from my eyes, and as if by a light switch, night abruptly falls across the island. The wind is wild now, whistling and howling, and it threatens the structural integrity of the trees, who bend and shake terribly. I tuck my hands under my arms and shudder – the coldness of night is even crueler than the searing hot sun. In the distance, I notice a figure; he’s too far away to make out, but somehow, I know instinctively who the shadow boy is.
Simon.
I move towards him, slow at first, then a run, then a flat-out sprint. I yell out to him, but he doesn’t hear me at all. As I near him, I notice he is standing at the water’s edge, transfixed by something in the water. I want to ask him what he’s looking at, but that thought is interrupted by sudden movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn to look; boy-savages swarm in from all directions, armed with sharp sticks and blunt rocks and closed fists. One of the boy-savages leads a familiar chant – I can barely recognise him underneath the pathetic warpaint he has smudged across his face.
"Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!”
I watch as the boy-savage raises a sheath-knife, and I feel a cold chill grip me; I can still remember the weight of that knife in my hands. It’s like I am in two bodies at once.
I know what will come next. In spite of myself, I scream Simon’s name, and I imagine a different ending. I imagine heroically taking on the dozen or so boy-savages. I imagine knocking them all unconscious, leaving their bodies strewn across the sand in defeat. I imagine embracing Simon, and him embracing me, and us staying that way until sunrise.
But I know what will come next, and I am frozen in place, forced to watch as the boy-savages pounce onto Simon, who doesn’t even flinch as they sink sharp sticks into his abdomen and thud blunt rocks into his skull. Blood splatters across the boy-savages grinning faces.
In unison, they recite the incantation, louder and louder, their screams and ululations tearing through my head. Then, quiet; the boys are gone. I rush towards Simon, pale and lifeless. I cup his cheek and allow myself to cry, my tears mixing with his blood. I whisper into his ear all the things I was too cowardly to tell him when he was alive. The water laps at the shore, listening, before it returns to the sea, carrying my secrets away with it.
…
I wake up in a hot sweat. I wipe my eyes; I must've been crying in my sleep again. The dreams have been getting worse lately as today’s date has gotten closer.
One year since I was rescued.
Doesn’t feel like being rescued, though. And it’s not just the nightmares. Sometimes I feel like being awake is worse; in the daylight, it’s hard to hide from what I’ve done.
No use wallowing. I’ve spent all year feeling sorry for myself. I have big plans for today, and that requires getting out of bed.
I complete my morning routine as if powered by a motor. Make the bed; fold the pajamas; get dressed. If I weren’t living in it, nobody would know this bedroom was mine; the walls are as white as the day I moved in and the wooden shelves display nothing but dust. The only hint of life in this room is a small pot plant perched on the windowsill. I tip my canteen and empty a droplet of water into the soil. The plant has seen better days; its leaves are shrivelled and brown. Still, I try to keep it alive.
Before leaving my room, I sling my school bag over my shoulder; it’s a Sunday, but I have important things in there – things I need for the plan – and so the bag comes with me.
In the common room, a few of the younger boys are sitting around the dining table, each boy using a napkin and a full set of cutlery to eat breakfast. It all seems so ridiculous – manners, politeness, rules – and I want nothing more than to tell them about the horrific things I’ve seen boys like them do. But I don’t. Instead, I nod my head and smile, ignoring their requests for me to join them as I make a break for the door, putting on my shoes and coat before stepping out into the cold British morning.
It’s a long walk to get where I’m going. Probably should’ve eaten something before I left, but I’m not hungry. I head north towards the old Cathedral, walking through town with my chin down, desperately avoiding the watchful eyes of passersby. It’s hard to be around other people – especially today. This is a normal morning for them. They’re just normal people. I notice a man and woman walking hand-in-hand with their children.
I haven’t heard from my parents in months.
Father used to send a letter every four weeks; usually just money, but if I was lucky, there’d also be a handwritten letter from my mother. Every letter, she’d say how she misses me terribly, and she wished school wasn’t so far from home, but that St Jude’s was the top school in all of England and I was getting the best education money could buy.
After I was rescued, I went home for a few weeks. I took a leave of absence from school, and I was alone a lot with my mother. Eventually, she decided I was too much to deal with; too “wild”, she said. She didn’t understand why I was so angry all the time. I went back to school without much fuss.
The letters have been less frequent this year. Only ever money now.
I push the thoughts away as I walk up the long, steep cobblestone footpath leading up towards the cathedral. Memories start to surface of when I used to come here, before the island. Mostly with the choir boys; singing hymns and messing around and getting in trouble with our music teacher. Back then, I had a role to play and a place I belonged; when we sang together, I felt important.
I don’t remember the last time I sang. I couldn’t go back to the choir – not without Simon. Not that I would admit that to anyone. I simply stopped going.
I’m the only boy from the island who is still at the same school. The other boys were pulled out of school by worried parents; some were sent to a psychiatrist, others to a bootcamp. I’m glad of it. Couldn’t bear to see any of them – or for them to see me, for that matter. It’s easier this way.
I have other memories of this cathedral. Memories of the long vacs. The quiet months each year when it was just me and Simon.
As I reach the cathedral, I can hear faint murmers from inside; I’m here just in time for the tail-end of the morning service. I’m not here for salvation, though – I have another mission in mind. I weave through the church graveyard and hop the fence that leads out to woodland. This is my favourite place in town – the lush green sycamores and willows that stretch out for miles; the soft melodic bird calls from overhead; the rhythmic drumming of cicadas from beneath me. For a moment, my mind clears. Those are the moments I stick around for.
I reach my destination; a small creek that runs through the woodland. I sit on the muddy riverbed, under the Tree of Destiny – the tallest tree for miles, its branches reaching out over the creek. I run my fingers through the water, watching my reflection distort and ripple. I take off my school bag and lift out a crumpled piece of paper. I took this from the island – or stole it, I suppose. When I read Simon’s journal, without really even thinking about it, I tore a page out and stuffed it into my vest pocket. I don’t know why I did it. I’d forgotten about it entirely until my clothes came back from the police station, and the page was still tucked away in the vest pocket. I'm glad to have it; a piece of him.
“Sorry. Uh- I’m sorry I stole this. It wasn’t mine to take.”
The words are awkward and I’m immediately embarassed. Embarrased to be talking to my dead friend, to be talking about what happened, to be the one who survived. I exhale, and I try again.
“I’m also sorry I lied. I… I said this was the saddest story I’d ever read. Which is true in a way. My life… Our life… It was sad. Spending all that time together because our fathers didn’t care enough to bring us home for the summer. That’s a sad life. But your story… It wasn't all sad. We had fun, didn’t we?”
I pause, as if I’m expecting him to respond. Stupid.
“I wish I could read your journal again. Maybe you could read it to me, and do your funny voices. You always did tell stories well.”
A lump forms in my throat. I want to be brave; I fight back tears.
“I’m forgetting your voice. Your face. What you were like when no one else was around. I… I don’t want to forget you.”
I lose the fight. Instinctively, I turn to see if anyone can see me. I’m alone. I cry into the crumpled page, my tears smudging the writing. I find a smooth rock on the riverbed and use it as a paperweight, placing the page under the Tree of Destiny. I reach into my bag and position my belongings around the base of the tree; my copy of Huckleberry Finn, my choral book, and the bracelet Simon weaved for me out of grass. I use my finger to write his name in the mud.
“I don’t know if you got a real funeral. I don’t trust your father to have done it properly. I… Well, I thought you deserved one. I’m sorry it’s not much. But I think you’d like it.”
I rest my back against the tree, closing my eyes and remembering when we used to come here. I smile and sing softly.
“Jesus, Savior, wash away
All that has been wrong today.
Help me ev'ry day to be
Good and gentle, more like Thee.
Thou, my best and kindest Friend,
Thou wilt love me to the end.
Let me love Thee more and more
Always better than before.”
I decide to stay in the woodland for a while longer. I watch the birds play in the water, and enjoy the open air. It’s only when I notice an aching hunger in my stomach that I realise how long I’ve been out here. I leave the Simon memorial behind – I hope it’s still here next time I visit.
On my walk back to the dormitories, I feel lighter. Maybe because it’s downhill, or maybe it just feels good to finally admit all my feelings out loud. I make it back in time for supper. The boys tell stories about the antics they’ve gotten into today; I listen in. I stomach more food than I was expecting, and excuse myself from the table.
I spend the evening in my room, reading The Old Man and the Sea. When I finally fall asleep, there are no nightmares waiting for me.
For the first time in a year, I don’t dream.