by Monica James
When he’s yards away, I exhale because, within moments, he’ll be safe. But it appears fate doesn’t like that outcome. From out of nowhere, a lightning bolt rocks the entire island. I feel the electricity all the way to my toes.
“Hurry up!” I shout because suddenly, every hair on my body stands on end.
I don’t have time to question it because before I know it, a fierce cracking and an ominous shadow have me screaming and stabbing the air with my finger. “Watch out!” Saint turns over his shoulder, but it’s too late.
Everything happens in slow motion.
He throws Harriet Pot Pie to safety, and in turn, he sacrifices his own because an enormous branch has snapped from a towering tree and strikes him down. The noise is sickening, but the sight of him trapped under the branch has me kicking up mud as I run toward him.
“Saint!” But he doesn’t move.
I slip and slide as my tennis shoes have no grip, but I’m working on pure adrenaline and get to him within seconds. He’s on his stomach. The thick branch crushing him into the soggy terrain. When I see blood on the back of his head, I know I only have minutes to set him free because he’s unconscious.
Lightning and thunder work in unison, hinting I could be lying beside Saint if I don’t hurry up. The branch fell across his back, and I try to move it off him, but it’s heavy and doesn’t budge. “Come on!” I yell as failing isn’t an option.
I yank with all my might, but the waterlogged ground causes me to lose my footing. The rain continues to fall, sinking Saint into the saturated soil. I drop to my knees to check his pulse. When I feel the faint rhythm, I sob in relief.
“I’m sorry!” I cry to his still form because he wouldn’t be out here if it wasn’t for me. That thought causes a surge of energy to course through me. I bend my knees, engage my core, and use all my strength to lift. A guttural scream leaves me.
It’s amazing what the human body is capable of because, before I know it, I’ve moved the branch a fraction. It’s still not enough to free Saint, so I repeat my actions, tapping into strength I didn’t even know I had. A roar slashes through the air as I deplete whatever energy I have, but it’s well worth it when I’m able to move the branch and set Saint free.
I did it!
But I can celebrate later.
Saint is out cold, so just as he did for me when he swam me to safety, I now have to do the same for him. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I drop to my knees and roll him onto his back. Mud cakes his face, and the sight kicks me in the solar plexus, winding me.
Pulling it together, I look over my shoulder at the cave. It’s not too far away, and the path is relatively clear, so without a choice, I grip his wrists and begin hauling him toward safety. He weighs more than the branch, but I continue to drag him, trying my best to avoid boulders and the rough ground.
I’m breathless, and my arms and legs are aching, and I lose my footing a handful of times, but I finally maneuver Saint into the cave. Tugging him toward the fire is going to be a lot harder in here with all the rocks, so I drag him as far as I can.
I sprint toward the sleeping bag and first-aid kit and am back at Saint’s side in seconds. I drop to my knees and place a hand in front of his mouth. He’s still breathing. I work frantically, rolling up the sleeping bag to place under his head gently as I roll him into the recovery position. When my hands come away with blood, I know the gash on his head is still bleeding.
I work madly, using whatever I can find in the first-aid kit to help clean the wound. When it stops bleeding after a few minutes, I sag in relief. All I can do is monitor him and hope he wakes soon, seeing as calling 911 isn’t an option.
I sit beside him, brushing away the matted hair from his forehead and cleaning the dirt from his face. Each stroke wipes away the filth, and I wish it was that easy to wash away the sins on his soul. This is the first time I’ve touched his face, and being this close to him, I can’t help but admire his strength.
My fingers linger over his cheeks and down through the soft stubble on his jaw. Touching him this way has something softening inside me. I can’t believe he risked his safety for Harriet Pot Pie and…me.
He knew I would have gone down there to save her, but instead, he did, and now he lies here, unconscious and hurt. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, running my fingers through his soft hair. “Please wake up.”
The idea of being stuck here alone sends my blood cold, but that’s not the issue invading my every thought. If Saint dies…I shake my head violently, needing to dispel such nonsense. What would it say for my self-respect if I confessed Saint’s death would hurt…a lot?
A tear slides down my cheek.
“Ahгел?” I yelp but cry out in relief when I see his eyes flickering.
“I’m here. Let me help you.” He doesn’t argue, and I slowly help him turn onto his back, adjusting the sleeping bag. “You’ve hit your head,” I explain. His eyes are still sealed shut.
“Tired,” he pushes out breathlessly.
“Can you open your eyes?” He has a head injury, and even though he’s tired, I don’t think he should sleep.
“Will in a minute,” he sleepily says.
“Saint…”
“Sleep,” he interrupts. It appears his bossiness knows no bounds—conscious or unconscious. The fact he’s talking and knows who I am are good signs. I will just watch him like a hawk.
I attempt to move, but he leaves me speechless when he reaches for my hand and links his fingers through mine. With my mouth agape, I peer down at our union. It looks so foreign, yet it doesn’t.
“The chicken?” he drowsily asks. Harriet Pot Pies clucks.
“She’s, she’s okay,” I reply, my words slow as I can’t believe he reached for me.
Saint’s heavy breathing indicates he’s fallen asleep, but his grip never wavers from mine.
Saint has slept for what feels like hours. I’ve watched him the entire time, ensuring he’s warm and comfortable.
I got as snug as I could, but the fact he wouldn’t let my hand go had me contorting my body so I could lean against the wall. I sat watching him, studying this mysterious man like I’d just stumbled across a new species.
I don’t understand him. I never have. But I can’t deny that his actions tonight have done something to me. I have always felt some inexplicable connection to him, but now, it feels different. It feels like something has changed.
I have never met anyone like him before. He is dark and brooding and most definitely not one of the good guys, so why does he continue doing virtuous things? Yes, he’s a downright asshole most of the time, but when he’s not, he’s something…else.
I want to know him, all of him because I don’t understand the feelings he evokes in me. I am losing myself, piece by piece, to Saint, and I don’t even care.
Sighing, I stretch my neck from side to side as my entire body aches. I don’t want to wake him, but the fact he’s been out cold for so long worries me. Running my thumb over the back of his knuckles lightly, I whisper, “Saint, wake up.”
No response.
“Saint,” I say, a little louder this time, but still, nothing.
Panic seizes me, and I gently brush the hair from his brow. When I do, however, I yank my hand back because he’s burning up. “Saint! Can you hear me?”
Oh, god. Nothing.
I feel for a pulse and find a shallow and weak one. His skin almost burns mine when I touch his cheeks. He has a fever. I don’t understand how that’s possible. I didn’t see any cuts on his body which were infected. Maybe it’s a virus? He didn’t complain about feeling unwell.
Hunting through the first-aid kit, I reach for some Tylenol and a bottle of water. He is out cold, so I have no idea how I’m going to administer this. I decide to crush it up and mix it in with the water. “Saint, I need you to open your eyes.”
His unresponsiveness has my heart racing.
When he doesn’t move, I position myself behind him and prop him up so he�
�s half sitting. He’s floppy, so I’m sure to be quick as I settle in behind him and cradle his dead weight against my chest. Reaching over his shoulder, I press the bottle to his lips.
“Drink. Please.”
His T-shirt is stuck to him, and I wonder if it’s the rain or sweat because the heat coming from his body is almost unbearable. When the water trickles down his lips, I know this is useless. I can’t force it down his throat in fear he’ll choke to death.
I can’t believe this is happening.
I manage to maneuver him onto his back and take vigil by his side. “Please don’t die,” I whisper, reaching for his hand.
“Zoey…”
I freeze, unsure what to say or do. In his delirious state, he is calling for her.
I quash down these feelings which resemble jealousy because they have no right to be there.
“Shh,” I coo, squeezing his hand. “It’s okay.” He stops talking and drifts back off into his delirium. Harriet Pot Pie sits near me, and we both guard our savior.
The storm continues to rumble around us, and all I can do is sit and wait—both for the storm and Saint.
I’m lost to the silence…
Day 19
WHEN ABSOLUTE SILENCE envelops you, you realize just how quickly we adjust to the constant noise that clutters our lives. Most say they want to get away from the hustle; that they want to spend a week on a deserted island and forget the world exists. Well, I’ve been there, done that, and let me tell you, the silence is overrated.
For three days, I’ve been lost in the silence, and I have never felt lonelier than I do right now.
Saint has faded in and out of consciousness. He doesn’t talk or open his eyes. Sometimes, he mumbles incoherently, but most times, he screams in his sleep. I have tried everything to wake him up, but it’s no use.
He needs a doctor because his condition seems to be getting worse. But that isn’t an option, so all I can do is keep him comfortable and hydrated. I’m beyond exhausted because when I’m not constructing an SOS signal on the beach, I’ve been watching him like a hawk. I’m too scared to close my eyes in fear of when I open them, Saint may have succumbed to whatever illness plagues him.
This has nothing to do with the knock on his head. That may have contributed to his weakened state, but something else is at work here. I just don’t know what.
The thought of doing this alone terrifies me, but I can’t deny that the thought of losing Saint scares me more. He wouldn’t be in this position if he hadn’t been out to rescue Harriet Pot Pie, which I still don’t understand why he did so.
He’s a walking conundrum.
I still want to know so much more about him, but as I touch his forehead and it comes away wet with fever, I know that may never happen. I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand. I’m defeated—in every sense of the word.
The storm has thankfully passed. It was brutal. I have ventured out, and the terrain barely looks recognizable. I’ve had to mark a new path with shreds of old clothing as everything has washed away.
Beginning my day the same as I have these past three days, I shoulder Saint’s backpack in order to collect more twigs and rocks to finish the SOS. It’s the only hope we have of getting off this island.
Harriet Pot Pie is grazing outside. She never leaves. It seems she too realizes the sacrifice Saint made to save her life. I bid her farewell and make my way down the hill.
The sun shines brightly without a cloud in the sky. Once I’m done with the SOS, I’ll pick some coconuts and hunt for food. The water Saint collected thanks to the heavy downpour is still in excess, but after a few days of sitting around, it’s beginning to taste a little stale.
I’m so sick of fish. I’m hoping I’ll strike it lucky and find a crab or something else. I’ve steered clear of the waters near the lagoon in fear the shark will return and finish what he started. Without Saint, I feel vulnerable, which is ironic in every sense of the word.
I work on the SOS until my arms and legs ache. I’m almost finished with the O. I’m determined to have it completed by tomorrow. I try digging in the sand for crabs, but I come up empty and have no choice but to fish.
It takes me a little while, but I’m able to spear a couple of fish. Once I’ve collected a few coconuts that have fallen from the tree, I stagger back toward the cave. I have no idea of the time, but the sun is dipping, so I know it’s almost dusk. Time passes me by on a loop because this has been my routine for the past three days. It’s Groundhog Day, and I want out. But this is my life now, and I don’t know how long for.
Feeling more than sorry for myself, I drag my feet, eyes peeled to the ground. When something green and bushy comes into view, I do a double take, and a winded gasp leaves me.
“It’s molokhia. It’s rich in anti-inflammatory properties and speeds up the healing process.”
The first bubble of hope I’ve had in three days rises, and I can’t drop to my knees fast enough as I yank out more handfuls of the stuff. I already have some from when Saint picked it before the storm, but I want to ensure I have enough. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner. Stuffing it into the backpack, I run through the thick terrain and up the hill.
My sides hurt, and I’m panting by the time I run into the cave and squat by Saint’s sleeping form. I hope by some miracle his fever has broken, but when I touch his cheeks and forehead, I pull my hand away.
He’s even hotter, and his skin is slick with sweat.
“No,” I cry, quickly slipping my arms through the straps of the backpack.
His T-shirt is wet with perspiration, so without thought, I sit him up and take it off. His body is lax, which just adds to my nerves. As carefully as I can, I lay him back down and run over to his change of clothes. I grab a new shirt and the first-aid kit.
When I return, I drop to my knees, ignoring the shake to my hands as I open the kit. I will try the Tylenol again, and maybe this time, I’ll add some of the molokhia with the water. As I’m about to dress him, my attention falls to the tattered gauze pad over his stab wound.
I had completely forgotten about his injury. When I asked him how it was, and he replied with fine, I just assumed it was. I didn’t press because it was clear he didn’t need me tending to his wounds anymore. But a light bulb suddenly appears out of nowhere. All this time, I assumed Saint had a virus or maybe even something similar to Dengue Fever thanks to all the mosquitos buzzing around us, but I’ll bet my left arm he has an infection, thanks to this wound. I suddenly remember him flinching when he moved, like he was in pain.
I gently peel back the gauze inch by inch, and what I see has me gasping. The jagged cut I sewed together is red and raw. It’s also inflamed and smells horrible. Peering up at Saint, I gently prod the area and watch for any signs. When he flinches and groans sluggishly, I know this is the reason he’s been so sick.
He has a nasty infection. The pus oozing from the wound only confirms that fact.
I am livid at myself for not putting two and two together. But I can berate myself later because now, I have to tend to Saint’s injury. I work on autopilot, boiling some water and preparing everything I need.
I sterilize the area with the boiling water, washing the weeping mess. I then use the antiseptic wipes to ensure the wound is as germ-free as I can get it. Hoping I’m right, I place some of the molokhia leaves in the boiling water and place them over the cut.
Saint did say they helped speed up the healing process. I don’t know if he meant ingesting them or applying them directly to the source, so I’m going to do both. Once the wound is lathered with the juices of the molokhia, I dry it gently, place some ointment on there and then apply a fresh bandage.
I don’t know if any of this will help, but I’ll try anything.
I really wish I could force more than a trickle of water down his throat because the Tylenol would help. But the boiled molokhia juice will do just fine.
Placing Saint’s head against my thigh, I blow on the concoc
tion, ensuring it’s not too hot. When it’s cool enough, I gently cradle his head, lifting it slightly and pressing the coconut shell with the juice to his lips. I feed it to him in small doses. Most of it runs down his lips, but surely, he’s swallowed some.
Not wanting to go too fast, too soon, I position myself so I can lean against the wall and still have his head on my lap. His chest rises and falls lethargically, but when I place my hand over his heart, I sigh in relief because it beats strong.
I didn’t think to ask him how his wound was or even offer to dress it because Saint is so…Saint. He is so strong and independent, and I never thought about him getting sick or being vulnerable, but being stuck here, I’ve now seen both.
Instantly, the urge to comfort him overcomes me, and I run my fingers through his hair. He would never allow me to touch him this way if the circumstances were different. Or would he?
My exhausted mind demands sleep, so I close my eyes for a few seconds and welcome the quietness once more.
“Zoey…”
My eyes snap open as my groggy mind takes a second to adjust to where I am. I’m still stuck on this island.
Peering down, I see that Saint’s head still rests on my lap. I touch his forehead, and even though he’s still hot, he’s not burning up. A small bubble of hope rises. Maybe he’ll pull through.
I have no idea of the time and being cooped up in this dark cave doesn’t help. I decide to try to feed Saint more of the molokhia concoction as I’m hoping this has helped with his fever. Without moving him from my lap, I reach for the remaining juice in the coconut shell and swish it around. Drawing the shell to his lips, I gently prop his floppy head forward.
“Saint, you need to drink this.” I can only hope he can hear me. Most trickles down his chin but when I see the slow swallow of his throat, I cry in relief. “That’s it. Drink.” I don’t want to force too much down, so once he’s had a few small mouthfuls, I pull the shell away.
He sighs and nestles against my leg.