Flies hover over a pile of shattered coconut shells, their white meat split open and exposed. Inside, a multitude of small hermit crabs settle in their soft cavities and feast.

  Tally marks. Each one represents a full day.

  In total, there are one thousand, four hundred and sixty. The scratches are crooked.

  They start at a small rock, before expanding across the surface of neighboring ones.

  The lines, which are completely straight at first, become jagged over the stones and walls of a hidden cave. There are hundred of lines. A pile of feces lies only a couple of feet away from the coconuts, mixed in with seaweed and thick palm leaves. A wolf’s skull, hardened below the sun, is stuck halfway in the sand. Its jaw is split in half. Several of its teeth are missing. Ripped free.

  The waves beat against the rocks.

  * * * * * * * *

  A wild boar wallows through the bushes, its enormous tusks barely brushing against the ground. Its large snout bumps against a log that is rotting underneath, crawling with slugs and other critters. Grunting, it opens its mouth, swallowing nearly all of them whole.

  The animal looks abruptly looks up.

  Behind them, the trees are almost silent, with the exception of crickets. The sow’s tail swings back and forth. One of its ears flickers.

  Something whizzes in the air, directly striking it in the chest. The boar releases a high pitch squeal; blood pool in the mud. The object is pulled out, then rammed again. It tries to gore its horns, but its neck is torn. It takes its last breaths, the strange object still lodged into its flesh, the last thing seeing two pair of muddy bare feet, toes mixing in with the dark blood.

  Ellison pry the stone spear free from the gaping hole. He flips the boar on its back and slices a neat line down the middle, causing all of its guts to slip out, which he carefully folds into the thick palm leaves he brought with him. Blood is splattered across his face, but he does not twitch. Nor make a sound. His dirty fingers dig into the beast’s stomach as he vigorously chomps down what is inside. His blood soaked hands continue to scoop out one raw organ after another, eating faster. His bites gradually grow bigger, breaking each piece off with his yellow, broken teeth.

  For a moment, he closes his eyes to savor the flavor. He would’ve waited to build a fire, but the sides of his stomach had been scraping against each other. His matted blonde hair, nearly bleached white from the sun, falls over his nose and bloodied lips. Licking his black rimmed fingernails, he chews slower and exhales. The sun is warm. Heat on his back, his body sweaty beneath the ragged wolf skin he’s used as clothing. They last far better than the palm leaves.

  The crickets chirp louder.

  He reaches the pig’s heart. Still chewing, he yanks it out, before bending his head back, his long, disheveled hair and beard coated with filth and blood. The cold, slippery texture is present at the back of his throat. The blood is refreshing, and he exhales in satisfaction as he continues picking at the remaining meat from the animal’s flesh. Once his stomach is full, he takes his spear, impales the carcass on both ends, before raising it up on his thin shoulders. The boar’s tusks are what he craves. They are an absolute beauty.

  Blood is smeared across his mouth.

  * * * * * * *

  Ellison Hasward has made six hundred and fifty five fires. He’s kept count. Some big, some small. Some in high places, some in low places. He’s scouted cliffs, the beach, the woods. It’s not a very large island—it only took two days for him to come back full circle. He’s made the majority of these fires at night. Kept them going for weeks. He’s stayed up at the cliffs during the chilling rain, trying to send up as much smoke as possible. He forgot what a helicopter or a plane sounded like.

  The skies are silent.

  He slowly runs his bloodied fingers across the cave walls, the groove of each tally mark still fresh against his skin. How old is he again? Twenty-five, twenty six? Is he twenty-seven? His thinks his birthday is in June, but it’s impossible to tell what month it is. All he can do is pick up a rock and scratch another line when he wakes up the next morning, a burden upon many. Maybe this all a dream. He desperately wishes for it to be. But the cold rock against his back is a solid reminder of where he is.

  He doesn’t make signal fires. He sees no point in them. He has nowhere to go. He is no one. He is absolutely nothing. Nothing at all.

  His ribs and hipbones poke through his sunburned, reddened flesh. His face is so sunken his cheekbones are exposed, and dark circles are present under his large blue eyes. He tries to remember his name, so he attempts to write it out in the sand. But he can’t, no matter how hard he tries. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. Because who would remember him? Who would even want to?

  Ellison takes long walks across the shoreline, before standing in the water, which splashes around his ankles. He silently stares ahead. He tried building a raft, to perhaps try his luck out at sea, but the water keeps pushing him back, steering him back to land. A wave had violently slammed into him, causing his leg to get caught against a coral reef. The wound was so deep he could see his muscle—a large scar present where the wound was.

  * * * * * * *

  It’s raining a lot tonight.

  Ellison lies curled up in a ball, his side pressed against the cave wall, where the lines are pressed against his skin. His back is faced towards the photograph of him on his father’s broad shoulder, eating strawberry ice cream. His head is throbbing, and he abruptly turns, his right bare foot knocking over a discarded coconut shell. He releases a shaky breath, as tears slowly drip down the bridge of his freckled nose. He hugs his knees, as lightning causes the small cave to be temporarily flooded with light, before leaving him in darkness again. His chest rises, falls.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  As lightning appears once more, Ellison’s blue eyes focuses on Donovan’s smiling face. The young man’s mouth slowly opens. His hoarse, whispered words fill the empty cave.

  “Please.”

  Thunder rumbles.

  ”Please, just… send someone here.”” Ellison fights back a sob. “I don’t care who. It can be John, for all I care. He can toss my body over the cliffs, beat me a hundred times.” He wipes his nose with the back of his dirty palm. “I won’t complain. I won’t make a sound.”

  Water drips from above.

  Ellison’s voice is barely audible. “I know you’re mad, and I can’t make anything up to you.” His jaw trembles. “But I don’t know how much more I can take. Just someone.”

  The rain pours harder outside. Something yellow and orange briefly glows outside the cave. Another clap of thunder shakes the ground, but Ellison’s eyelids slowly close. A deep fatigue washes over him, his cheeks still streaked with water. The rain gradually stops.

  * * * * * * *

  As the young man steps outside the next morning, the sky is gray. He bends down next to a tide pool and washes his face with both hands, water dripping from his beard. He stands up and gazes behind him for moment.

  There is a strange scent in the air.

  Ellison frowns, then deeply inhales.

  It’s definitely smoke—the lightning usually strikes down a couple of palm trees, leaving behind ashes. But there is another component intertwined. He lingers for a moment, before pulling out and clutching the knife that he made from the boar’s tusks. His knuckles are white as he ascends up the hill by the beach. The wind blows his thin clothing and hair back. He treads carefully, watching the ground for any snakes or scorpions.

  He has to first clear each of the branches and vines back, as the jungle is usually so thick he can hardly see anything. But this soon becomes unnecessary—his large blue eyes catch hold of a great deal of shattered trees, stripped land, and overturned bushes.

  Ellison’s heart skips a beat.

  In the middle of the mess lies a small jet lopsided into the dirt, with the front completely crumpled up. One of the wings are missing and stuck into the tree above, along with the side door exposed. Fuel leaks down below. Ellison tucks his knife back through the wolf skin’s fabric and, crouching low, makes his way over to the aircraft. Fog hangs over in the air. He peeks over the exposed opening. Leaves and twigs had fallen down in the pilot’s seat. Gripping the edges of the doorway with both hands, he steps in.

  ”Hello?” he quietly says.

  The aircraft creaks, swaying under the wind.

  Ellison slowly looks up, examining the empty seats. Sure, it was in pretty bad shape, but whoever had landed it here—or attempted to, had managed to do so between the trees. He just hoped that he wouldn’t find a body nearby, probably ejected due to the nature of the crash. The jet is so small that he has to stoop low to avoid bumping his head. Just as he’s exploring the cockpit, something catches his eye. Something that makes him freeze.

  Something that he hasn’t seen for ages, besides his own. At that moment, the years of loneliness seem to melt off his shoulders. A smile crosses his freckled, sunburned face.

  Footprints. Shoe treads.

  The young man jumps down from the jet and rushes towards them. His mouth is wide open, and as he places a shaky hand on top of the first one, he can hardly breathe. They advance into the fog as he follows them. He is running, tripping over some roots, but eagerly scrambling to his feet. His mind races. He ends up tumbling headfirst down a slope, but pulls himself back up, his eyes scanning the damp earth. He’s smiling.

  This person must be alive. Obviously so, if they were able to walk away from this relatively unharmed. Ellison’s bare feet pound against the dirt. After several miles the footprints head towards the sandy beach. But when he gets there, his face falls. To his great dismay, they disappear, having been washed away from the waves last night. His face is drips with sweat as he cups his hands around his mouth. The salt air blows into his hair.

  “Hello?”

  His voice echoes through the coral reefs and the towering rocks. The young man squints his blue eyes. If only the sun was out. Raising his arms over his head, he shouts a couple more times, but there is nothing, only the sound of the waves. Dejected, Ellison returns back to his camp, after examining the smashed jet some more. His head is buzzing.

  What if this person is gravely hurt, or dying? He couldn’t bear to let that happen under his nose. After searching again the next morning, he again came across nothing.

  Ellison tries to focus on gathering some more food for the day, but he can’t keep his thoughts from wandering. Once the sky clears, he finally scouts the woods and the mountains again. Despite hours of searching, he still sees nothing. As the sun begins to set, he comes to the realization that they might be terrified. After all, the boar’s dried blood was still stained on his clothing, his hair. He must look crazy to this person—someone fresh out of society. Or maybe he was hallucinating. But every time he touches that jet, it is cold and hard against his hand. He knows.

  They’ll probably get hungry.

  Ellison decides to spare them the trouble, remembering his first days on the island and his struggle to find food. He climbs up a tree, gathering as much ripe, yellow fruit as possible. He takes as much as he can hold in his arms and returns back to the jet. There, he leaves the pile on the seat, before crouching behind a tee and waiting.

  Hours pass. Ellison is about to go back to his camp and call it a day, when there is a slight rustling in the trees nearby. A stirring of the bushes. Someone trips and falls.

  His blue eyes widen.

  It’s a rather skinny guy, dressed in a muddy janitor’s uniform and boots. His curly hair and eyes are a dull black. He stumbles awkwardly to his feet before going inside the wrecked aircraft. His shadow disappears as he climbs onboard but he notices the fruit lying on the seat. Relief crosses his face as he reaches for one and takes a deep bite, sitting down for a moment to eat. He continues to ravenously finish it, licking his fingers, looking around. He reaches for under the seat and pulls out a wrinkled map. After tucking the rest of the fruit into his oversized pockets, he jumps off the plane and heads back onto the woods.

  Ellison slowly comes out, his hands shaking. I knew it, he thinks. I knew there was someone here. First person I’ve ever seen in four years. They must’ve seen me, too. They’re scared. But I’m harmless, buddy. I promise. Maybe he can tell me what he’s doing out here, too.

  He gazes at the fog.

  Hopefully, I’ll see him again soon.