The 90th of Ymiden 718
Another tally mark added to the collection scratched in the bark of the palm tree. He cleaned the blade with his ragged shirt, then carefully stuffed it back inside its sheath. This had been started as a way to keep track of time, but he had lost it anyway, no longer bothering to count. Now it was just a ritual, a method to stave off madness and cling to hope that he would get out of here eventually. Maybe not right away. Maybe not tomorrow. Perhaps not even this season. But eventually.
He just had to believe.
The crate was almost empty. His food supply was running out, lessening each and every trial. It would be best to rethink the portions for each meal, ration it again so he wouldn’t starve to death. There was no telling how long he’d be here, after all, and he’d rather not run out of food before they came to get him out of here. Nay, scratch that. He would run out of food. It was inevitable. But he could prolong his life by carefully dividing his rations, and perhaps when he did run out, when he did have to fast, he would still hold out until they got him out of here.
He just had to believe.
Water, all around. Clear, tempting. But salty, so salty. Disgusting. Undrinkable. He wouldn’t die of thirst just yet though. Buckets of rainwater he’d poured into empty bottles of rum. He could drink a little every trial. Not so much that he’d run out immediately, despite his want to do so. The inside of his mouth constantly felt like a leather boot. He’d considered drinking his own piss, but there simply wasn’t enough fluid inside him to expel. He sweated too much for that. Besides, it probably wasn’t wide to drink your own excretions. They were purged from the body for a reason. In case of emergency, he still had a dozen bottles of rum, though it would really help the situation any. Hopefully they’d find him before he became a dried-out husk lying dead in the sand.
He just had to believe.
Insane heat, coming from the sky with bright rays of light. Reflecting off the water around, slowly cooking him inside his own skin. The sand under his feet burned his soles. His skin had turned red and itchy and could be peeled off like he was some ripe fruit. Stomach grumbled at the thought. He ignored it as best he could. It wasn’t dinnertime yet. A swig of water then, to rehydrate his mouth, to make his lips feel like flesh and not like dried-up parchment. A swig of water to ease his headaches, to quench that needy feeling. He just hoped it would rain again soon. Starvation was a joke compared to dehydration. It couldn’t stay this damned hot forever, could it? No. No.
He just had to believe.
A large construction made of driftwood, held together by ropes and knotwork. Not much more than the broken mast of a ship, positioned upwards because of the mess of wood and rope around the base. The piece of white canvas tied to the top was a vain attempt at drawing attention from nearby ships, fluttering in the breeze. It was large enough to see from the horizon, wasn’t it? If someone passed it, they had to notice it, right? Ships did sail in this part of the ocean, didn’t they?
He just had to believe.
Empty bottles, standing in a line. Corked and ready, but without mission. Waiting to be deployed. He could put a message in them, send them out over sea. Not that he hadn’t already. Simple notes, only three letters long. Written with his finger on a diary page washed clean by the ocean. It’d taken a while before the tides had accepted the mail and had set out to deliver them. So long in fact that he had feared they would never find their way to the open sea. That they’d just float around his little island, defiantly. But they’d left after all, one bottle each trial, until he’d run out of pages to write on. All that was left was for someone to find one and come looking for him. Take him away from this cramped island.
He just had to believe.
Chipped nails, cracked and rough and long. A wild mane, unkempt, unwashed, a tangled mess full of sand and seaweed and salt. Ugly wizard’s beard, unfit for his face, equally wild as his scalp. Full of crumbs and dried spittle, and perhaps lice. Ragged clothes, torn apart by the elements, by the wreck. Unraveling a bit more every trial, until they’d be reduced to individual threads. They were stiff with the salt of the waves, the colors were washed out because of the rain and the sun. His smell clung to it, the smell of sweat and unwashed man. The scent of the sea, and of sand. Of old clothes left to dry in the sweltering heat. Leathery skin, tanned by the relentless sun, hardened and weathered by the sea breeze. Wrinkled and losing its elasticity due to dehydration. Ribs and other bones showing through. He felt like a skeleton masquerading as a man, a dead soul unaware of his passing. Perhaps that was the case... No. This suffering could only be a part of life, however. Yes, he was sure of that.
He just had to believe.
A lonely soul. Enjoying only the company of his own thoughts and delusions. He didn’t dislike the silence. The peace and quiet. He hated the desperation. The fear. The wild look in his eyes when he stared at his reflection in the water. Would he be able to fit back in with society when he was rescued? Would he be able to adapt to the constant noise of the city again? Would he be able to deal with their wastefulness, their carefree attitudes, their petty squabbles? Would they even accept him? Would they think him mad? Gone crazy out of loneliness and stress and hunger and thirst? Had he? The laughter came out in short barks that hurt his throat. Probably. One had to be insane to cling to the hope of rescue after this amount of time. There was no helping it. He laughed, rolling in the sand, body trembling, nearly choking. Still—
He just had to believe.
