The first few months are the worst. The island is like a foreign country, with streets they can't navigate and a language they don't understand. They're angry and confused and neither of them knows how to fish. Brad glares when she talks, and Ray doesn't talk much at all.
They find a freshwater stream, the bushes lining it filled with berries. They make plans to build a raft, but the trees on the island are all soft wood and fragile bark, nothing that would hold. They build a shelter instead, and rebuild it every time it gets destroyed by a storm.
It gets easier, somehow. The days get longer and then shorter again. Brad leans against him to tug her shoes off one day, sighing when her feet hit the cool sand. She smells like salt.
He forgets, most days. Brad does, too. He can tell by the way she freezes sometimes, when she says an inside joke Ray doesn't get or touches the stone pendant hanging around her neck.
They don't talk much. It's easier that way, with no conversations that might drift into unwelcome topics. It's easier to just not think about what things were like before.
They talk about the here and now. They fish and comb the island for anything useful. They make sure the fire's always going. They never say out loud that neither of them believes in it anymore, the fire or the stones they spent a full week lining up on the beach to spell out "HELP." They've stopped looking for the glint of metal wings on the horizon.
After two years, the island doesn't seem that bad. It seems like home, almost. Which is fucked up, so he tries not to think about it. He focuses on what needs to be done -- finding food, breaking down brush to keep the fire going, making sure neither of them spends too much time in the sun.
The days are getting longer and hotter again. They're thinking about building a second shelter by the stream, where it's shaded all day and cooled by the water. There would be more bugs in the woods, though. He re-braids Brad's hair as they weigh the pros and cons. Brad puts a handful of branches on the fire before they go to bed.
When Ray wakes up, that last day, it doesn't even register at first. He can barely hear the hum of the engine over the waves. Brad's sitting next to him, her bare freckled shoulder pressed against his. She's got a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun.
It takes an hour for the boat to get there. They watch it inch closer, their feet sinking into the sand. Brad laces her fingers through his.
Ugh, you're filling all my prompts in the most unexpected of ways and I am overjoyed. I love this, it's a sparse story told in a sparse way, and thank you for writing it!
They find a freshwater stream, the bushes lining it filled with berries. They make plans to build a raft, but the trees on the island are all soft wood and fragile bark, nothing that would hold. They build a shelter instead, and rebuild it every time it gets destroyed by a storm.
It gets easier, somehow. The days get longer and then shorter again. Brad leans against him to tug her shoes off one day, sighing when her feet hit the cool sand. She smells like salt.
He forgets, most days. Brad does, too. He can tell by the way she freezes sometimes, when she says an inside joke Ray doesn't get or touches the stone pendant hanging around her neck.
They don't talk much. It's easier that way, with no conversations that might drift into unwelcome topics. It's easier to just not think about what things were like before.
They talk about the here and now. They fish and comb the island for anything useful. They make sure the fire's always going. They never say out loud that neither of them believes in it anymore, the fire or the stones they spent a full week lining up on the beach to spell out "HELP." They've stopped looking for the glint of metal wings on the horizon.
After two years, the island doesn't seem that bad. It seems like home, almost. Which is fucked up, so he tries not to think about it. He focuses on what needs to be done -- finding food, breaking down brush to keep the fire going, making sure neither of them spends too much time in the sun.
The days are getting longer and hotter again. They're thinking about building a second shelter by the stream, where it's shaded all day and cooled by the water. There would be more bugs in the woods, though. He re-braids Brad's hair as they weigh the pros and cons. Brad puts a handful of branches on the fire before they go to bed.
When Ray wakes up, that last day, it doesn't even register at first. He can barely hear the hum of the engine over the waves. Brad's sitting next to him, her bare freckled shoulder pressed against his. She's got a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun.
It takes an hour for the boat to get there. They watch it inch closer, their feet sinking into the sand. Brad laces her fingers through his.
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