Fresh Flesh

by Todd Russell

  It had been ten days since he'd teased her with the bee incident, and—without even trying—she'd found the payback.

  "Dick? Dick, you okay?"

  "I, er, forgot. . ."

  "You forgot I was a woman?"

  "No, how could I forget that?"

  "That women have menstrual cycles?"

  He nodded. 'Yeah, yeah. . .something like that." Silence.

  Stares.

  Lost words.

  "Uh. . .Dick, I don't suppose you. . .you have any ideas for. . .you know. . .?"

  He looked at her dazedly. "For. . .what?" He really didn't know what she was hinting at.

  Okay, she told herself, be blunt. "A tampon."

  All the blood in his facial flesh seemed to drain away.

  "N—no."

  Silence.

  Stares.

  Lost words.

  "Don't worry, it's my problem. Come on, let's go to the beach."

  For a monumental first time she led him straight to the beach. Although she doubted from the look on his face—the shocked speechlessness—that he would have been able to help anyway.

  "Oh my, Dick. Look, there!" Jessica pointed at the sky. They had been sitting on a huge piece of ocean-rotted driftwood, watching the tide, Dick had gone away to relieve himself and then she saw it. So high in the nearly cloudless sky it seemed unreal. A fine, chalky line of fuel trailing behind it.

  Dick ran onto the beach, trying to zip his fly. "Huh, what is it?"

  She pointed to the sky where the tiny jet rumbled in the faint distance. "A plane. They can't be that far up there."

  "Fifteen, maybe twenty thousand feet." Dick replied.

  "Do you think, think they can see. . .?"

  "Us? No."

  "Why don't we set up a signal? Maybe they are a search plane? Maybe they are looking for us?"

  "No," he replied quickly.

  She watched the sleek plane slip across the sky as if it were on a sheet of ice. It flew almost as graceful, as liquid as the birds she'd seen on the island. It took a moment to swallow her astonishment and realize how strange Dick had reacted to the sight above.

  "What's wrong with you? No? No what? The signal? No, to them coming back?"

  "Yeah," he answered flatly and turned for the ravine. "I'm going back to the cave."

  "Hey, what's wrong with you?" she raised her voice, pointing at the plane. He was at the edge of the ravine. "DON'T YOU WANT TO GET OFF THE ISLAND?"

  He kept walking until he was not there at all.

  She turned and looked back up at the jet. What was his problem? He'd been on the island for eleven years and had never seen a boat or a plane and now she spots a plane and he seems disinterested? Was he crazy? Had he been chewing coca leaves? Smoking something funny in his special clearing?

  She looked up at the jet and waved her arms frantically. "HELP ME. HELLLLLLLP MEEEEEEEEE. HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLP MEEEEEEEEEEFEEE!" She kept yelling until her vocal chords were thrashed. She knew it was a foolish, futile thing to do, but it made her feel good, it raised dormant hopes that someone might be looking for her, Jessica Stanton, wife of multi-millionaire Edward Stanton. That somebody had faith she had survived.

  She tried running back and forth, frantically waving her arms. Screaming, pleading and praying.

  The plane moved away, ignoring her.

  How could she blame them? The plane to her looked tiny. Did she expect them to swerve out of the sky, swoop down and snatch her off the island? Of course she did.

  Then it happened.

  A dark blur ejected from the plane and slowly began to drift down toward the island.

  Jessica stopped moving, staring. "What. . .the?"

  The blur slowly transformed into a parachute. Funny, though, because she'd always thought parachutes were attached to people, and the thing at the bottom of the web-like chute was no person. As it drifted closer. . .closer. . .

  A green box?

  "What. . .the. . .?"

  After a brief spell of confusion, it all became clear.

  The plane was dropping the green box for the island! Jessica may have been a little naive sometimes but she knew damn well planes didn't parachute green boxes out of the sky to "freakishly unknown" islands. The island was not unknown. Someone, somewhere knew about the island.

  The tell-tale green box drifted closer. Two thousand feet and growing larger. . .larger. . .

  Dick had not been truthful with her.

  She had suspected he'd fudged the truth somewhat, exaggerated like most men did, but not anything significant. This was blatant proof he'd lied to her. But why?

  Drifting closer. Growing larger.

  Only one terrifying question choked Jessica's mind: what was going on? Everything Dick had told her—especially his so-called fishing shipwreck—became suspicious. Now she didn't know what to believe from him.

  Dick's closet full of lies raced through her brain, fooling with her concentration on the green box's destination. She saw where it was going to fall and sucked in her breath.

  No, it can't be.

  She closed her eyes, clenched her fists, feeling the anger rise in the pit of her stomach. Her first sight had been unbelievable and shocking but the second was worse. She opened her eyes and confirmed. She saw the target destination for the green box.

  The east side of the island.

  CHAPTER 8

  She ran as if tiny jet-thrusters were attached to her ankles, twisting and turning through the ravine, darting toward the cave. It was a mile from the beach to the cave and she covered the distance quickly. A month ago she would never have imagined traversing the ravine like a born native, but she didn't stop to appreciate her improving skill. She had worries and fears that would only be calmed by learning the truth Dick had kept from her about the island.

  She reached the cave, heart pounding like its rhythm during the bee incident. She shot up the small dirt incline and through the cave mouth. There he sat, sitting on the rock. Staring at the wall and whittling.

  She moved inside and stood in front of him, breathing hard and ragged.

  "What's wrong with you?"

  He didn't stare at her, didn't answer and continued whittling.

  "Dick? Please talk to me. What's going on here? Who knows about this place? What is going on here? Why have you been lying to me? Talk to me!"

  He raised a hand to slap her, but stopped, "Shut up."

  She stepped away, mouth agape. The cave wall stopped her, made her a prisoner to Dick's sudden hot-temper.

  "Just shut up," he said. "Don't act like a fucking woman."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Every woman has this maddening rant and rave mode. Just calm down."

  "Calm down? I deserve to know the truth," she said with flushed cheeks. "Why have you deceived me?"

  He motioned her to sit down with his pocket knife.

  "No thanks, I'll stand.'" Her tone full-on pissed off.

  "Now I know how you got all these things."

  "What things?"

  "If you had been shipwrecked like me you would not have had time to grab anything. But somehow you've got plenty of matches and string. And I think you have other stuff, things I haven't seen. You've been lying to me all along, and now I want—no I demand—to hear the truth."

  "The day I let a woman demand anything of me I'll chop off my dick."

  "Go right ahead, you have the knife in your hands," she snarled.

  He jumped to his feet, a dark, dangerous look filling his eyes. Uh oh, too far. She was blocked by the cave wall, unable to move away from him.

  He reached out and grabbed her shoulder with his soiled left hand. He balled up a fist.

  Oh shit, here it comes.

  Dick drew his arm back, filled his muscles with enough adrenaline to execute a bone-crunching blow. His facial muscles went rigid. His eyes were stone.

  He brought his fist forward.

  NO!

  She froze. Closed her eyes.

 
And at the last millisecond before impact with her jaw, Dick pulled his punch and opened his hand. He was very strong and could have given her a shiner but didn't. Last second guilt?

  His slap-punch still hurt. Her jaw stung, numbed like shots by her anesthetic-happy dentist. In the darkness of her closed eyes, she saw bright fireworks. It was supposed to be a wonderful first kiss, not an anger and abuse that caused this effect.

  He let go of her shoulder. Her hands went directly to her throbbing jaw.

  He grunted, spat and exited the cave. The sound of his ragged tennis shoes tearing through the dirt on the beaten trail, and then the ravine echoed in her ears.

  He was gone.

  She sank to her knees, crying into both hands.

  She couldn't get up for a long time. She stayed on the ground, dwelling on his angry punch-slap. She never once thought Dick would hit her and she couldn't understand why he would lie about the island.

  Now she wasn't sure of anything.

  The tears kept coming. When would she know what was happening?

  The ocean had swallowed the life she knew and led, dropped her off for an eternal stay on this hateful island. An evil Johnny Olson, in hell's version of The Price Is Right, would have gleefully announced: "And you, Jessica Stanton, have won a grand and disturbing trip to an island with surprises at every turn! Yes, you will spend an endless vacation with a lifetime supply of flesh-craving insects and delicious, unreachable coconuts. And our Price Is Right special bonus is offering you all the fish you can eat. Forever!"

  More tears.

  More.

  When she finally stopped crying, night had fallen and Dick had still not returned.

  Alone. Frightened. She wondered if he ever would come back.

  She waited.

  And waited.

  PART 2

  SECRETS

  CHAPTER 9

  The butterfly danced and landed on the plant near Kyle Roberts and a smile crept across his lips. Beyond the trees the morning ocean tide rolled in.

  Behind him, Seth Everson repeated what he'd seen but Kyle had zoned out. He focused on the butterfly.

  The butterfly danced.

  * * *

  The year was 1958.

  His earliest and fondest childhood memory involved butterflies.

  In middle school he would always try to get seats close to the window so he could stare out and watch what happened outside the window. Despite the distraction, his grades never suffered. He was an exemplary student who rarely received less than an A grades. In fact, the only negative marks received in his life came in human form.

  Not boys so much, although they would tease him quietly behind his back. Those that did it to his face would end up in fights. Kyle was a strong boy and a good natural fighter.

  He had a leader personality among boys and would be first to raise his hand to lead any group in school and extracurricular activities which made him semi-popular. But his personality was abrasive and led other kids to follow him more out of fear than respect.

  Girls deemed him good looking but dark and brooding. They didn't like the glassy look in his eyes or the way he would stare through them. Kyle didn't understand or care that much about girls. They smelled and looked nice but they would deceive him with their external beauty. When he stared through girls, he examined the ugliness inside.

  This might have had something to do with his feelings about his own mother a prison psychiatrist would say much later in life, but all Kyle knew about the woman at the time was abandonment. Women could cast off their young, it didn't seem right. She and possibly his father had both left him. He wanted to blame his mother but he didn't know her, so he blamed her entire sex. His father he gave a bit of a pass because there was a possibility his father didn't even know about him.

  Butterflies.

  But butterflies were beautiful all around. They danced on the air and in Kyle's dreams. Butterflies had definition and purpose. The more he learned about butterflies the more they fascinated him.

  Various foster homes he was in would force him to go to church and listen to preachers. He studied religion but found it difficult bearing his life to date having faith in God. He wanted to believe in something, so he tried.

  He believed in butterflies.

  He would never forget the day he captured his first butterfly. That changed everything. Imprisoned in the net, fluttering, Kyle trembled.

  "I didn't mean to," he told the butterfly and in the process of trying to free it somehow he had injured the beautiful creature.

  What have I done? Why did I hurt you?

  He watched the helpless butterfly. He looked around and tried to stop others passing by at the park. "Mister, can you please help? M'aam? Mister? Sir? M'aam? Please, please I need help. Please!"

  Some would stop and pat him on the head or pass him quirky smiles but nobody helped him.

  He cried his way back home, the butterfly still stuck in the net. It died before he made it back. He showed his foster mother, Angela, a big, black lady with a huge heart, what he'd done.

  "It's ok. You didn't mean to hurt, Kyle."

  "I tried to get help but nobody. . ." Kyle pointed at the butterfly in the net. He had wanted to touch and appreciate the beauty in close range but what he touched had died.

  He cried while Angela held him, rocking him back and forth. He vowed never again to hurt another butterfly.

  This would be the only living creature he'd grant this promise.

  * * *

  Back to 1993 on the island and Seth Everson kept calling his name.

  "Dammit, I heard you the first time," Kyle replied and then yelled for his friend, Bobby.

  Bobby was never that far from Kyle Roberts. "Yes?"

  "Go investigate what Seth keeps saying he saw. You know him and his crazy eyes. You'd think we were in the desert."

  Bobby made a move toward the direction of the butterfly and Kyle raised his knife. "No. The other way."

  After Bobby exited, Kyle closed his eyes and voyaged back to his childhood.

  "Butterflies," he whispered. "Butterflies."

  * * *

  1960.

  As Kyle grew older and with butterflies off limits he began to collect dozens of other insects. He became consumed with studying the different types at the public and school libraries. How to properly mount, store and preserve each specimen. His fascination with the hobby grew.

  He started to enjoy the killing part best. His experience with the butterfly was a lesson in how not to kill what you loved but he had no emotion for other insects and bugs. He would even kill butterflies in other stages as caterpillars. Ok to kill as long as they hadn't morphed into a butterfly. Once they had made that transformation they wouldn't be harmed.

  He stuck the specimens alive and watched them cringe until they went still. He found a curious urge developing inside him watching the creatures dying impaled.

  It seemed somehow analogous to his own life to date. He was impaled in each foster home, forced to stay where the state dictated he stay, forced to do what they ordered done. They watched him cringe at first and then be still when he got used to the new home.

  The only freedom he had was when he collected and mounted specimens. When he chose what creatures to become part of his collection he became the state.

  He never knew his biological mother or father and it wasn't until Angela took him in at foster home number four that he found any kind of parental-like figure in his life. The first few years with Angela were great except for one thing:

  Charles.

  Charles was Angela's tough, ruddy husband. Charles took an early disliking to Kyle and would punish him more than their other children. If Kyle forgot to do a chore or was slow in getting one done, Charles would be there with his large, dirty-nail mechanic hands.

  Kyle was never abused physically or sexually. That kind of abuse left questions that the state would demand answers. Charles was too slippery to leave that kind of trail. Charles dealt his ab
use psychologically.

  If Charles knew Kyle enjoyed something, sooner or later, he would take it away. Favorite books, music, radio programs all became acceptable punishment lessons from Charles. Kyle might have learned something positive if Charles gave the items back but that rarely happened.

  It's almost like Charles enjoyed taking the items away with little promise of return. Whatever Kyle loved, stayed out of reach. Like the girls he thought he might like at school.

  And the butterfly's safety that Kyle had violated.

  * * *

  1963.

  The worst ever incident happened the Thanksgiving after Kyle's sixteenth birthday. By then Kyle had become the oldest foster child and Charles had been riding him even worse.

  It was the same year that guy Oswald shot President Kennedy from the book depository. That's all anybody wanted to talk about: The President was shot, The President was shot. Kyle was out collecting the day it happened and heard about it on every radio and from his foster family at home. He was more interested in Thanksgiving than who shot the President of the United States.

  The timing was ironic though because it was the first time Kyle thought about killing another human being. It was a fleeting, odd thought. He pondered why somebody would kill another person. No, I wouldn't do that. Kyle shook the thought off again. The thought soon crept into his nightmares.

  But here this Oswald guy killed the President. Oswald claimed he was innocent in an interview on TV. Maybe that's how killing other people works, Kyle thought. Blame the grassy knoll.

  "Kyle, dear, can you get the turkey out of the oven?" Angela asked.

  "Sure," Kyle went to the oven, donning the oversized cloth gloves. He opened the door with heat rushing out at his face. Sliding the metal rack toward him he started to grab both edges of the pan and locked eyes with the turkey.

  The head was gone and it seemed to be there staring headless back at him, blaming him for its condition. Charles had taken Kyle hunting and they'd caught the turkey together. It was one of the few fond fatherly-like memories Kyle had of the two of them.