Unseen Depths [Sample]

One ▪ Island Life

GO ON THAT Bermuda Triangle tour, they said. It'll be fun, they said.

    I hate this island. I can't even describe to you how much I despise this stupid island. Been stuck here for three days, but it might as well have been three years. Stories romanticize being shipwrecked, like building tree houses and eating coconuts makes for a picnic.

    Nope.

    It's impossible to build a treehouse on a teensy island blessed with only two palm trees.

    Do you know how difficult it is to even get to a coconut? They're kind of high up a rather un-climbable tree, and once you do manage to get one to fall, it's hard to open. I don't have a hammer or a pick. My grip isn't too good, either, since that crab clamped its claws down on my thumb, yesterday. Didn't even get to eat that stupid crustacean. I was too busy screaming words I'm not proud of instead of trying to catch it again.

     I bang this cursed coconut into a piece of driftwood over and over, but it won't open and my empty stomach gnaws away at what's left of my sanity. I need to eat. I know it. But no one ever taught me how to fish, and now the crabs make my skin crawl. I take a glance at the little pond I've been drinking out of. While my lips are chapped and I want to fill my belly with something, I fear the water. It doesn't move, and stagnant liquid isn't safe. But what else do I have?

    Dropping the coconut, I stand to lean over the pond, the still water reflecting the ever-beating sun into my face. My face, I try not to look at it. My skin is cracked and my brown eyes sunken. At least I am dark enough that I don't burn red in the sun—that doesn't mean my skin doesn't feel burnt. And, well, I won't even discuss my hair. Why isn't this like a movie, where the girls get marooned with cute sundresses and have perfectly styled tresses? I thought saltwater was supposed to be good for wavy hair, and I don't even have a stinking flower to stick in my tangled mess to make myself feel pretty.

    Nothing in my stomach, I fall back into the sand and stare out into the deep, blue ocean. Thousands of dollars spent in order to see this beautiful view, and yet I don't enjoy it one bit. I'm supposed to be at a resort with my best friend, getting massages and umbrella drinks by the pool, all of it served by good-looking young men there to cater to our every whim. But no, instead I'm stuck here on the isle from Hell.

    I try not to think about my best friend, Sally, as I cried over her enough last night. But I can't get that look on her face out of my head; the mortified one as the boat capsized in that freak wave and we got separated. I hope she found her own horrid island, and that she managed to get her coconut open. I hope everyone on that boat found an island.

    A few tears fall from my eyes, and I'm hasty to wipe them away. My mascara is long gone, it's just . . . there's already more than enough salt water to go around.

    Will I ever be found? It seems more and more unlikely. I know one thing, though: if I get back, I will never, ever, ever complain about my boring job, ever again. I've had enough adventure for an entire lifetime. That cubicle and headset sounds like heaven on Earth. I would give anything to have that lukewarm coffee with the powdered creamer, and my mouth waters at the thought of a day old donut.

    So much for not crying—I sob over the lack of donuts. Cream-filled, my favorite. Chocolate glaze. Sprinkles, can't ever forget those sprinkles. I draw a donut in the sand, poking dots in the top to mimic the rainbow sprinkles. It's not the same as the real thing, same as this isn't the same as sketching with charcoal and paper. I miss my notebook. I need to sketch something. Anything. The gray smudged on the back of my hand is always therapeutic, somehow. It helps me cope.

    Nothing here cares that I can't cope.

    Why me? What horrible thing did I do to deserve this? Yeah, I'm sarcastic and not very friendly in my thoughts when speaking to the customers, but come on. Every customer service rep is like that. Why don't they all get shipwrecked? But that's not the answer. I've made bigger mistakes in my life, some that will haunt me forever. None worthy of this kind of punishment, though. I scream and punch the sand like that will help. Like someone will hear. Don't judge me. I've been pretty brave up until now, but I think I'm entitled to a bit of self-pity.

    The sun starts to set, and that means relief from the ultraviolet that's been cooking me all day. Night brings it own troubles, though. It's terrifying; there's no other way to say it. The darkness is complete, beyond the moon and stars. Last night, there was no moon. Tonight, there will be merely a sliver. Mom used to call that a toenail moon, and would joke it signaled the time to trim my nails. But I don't have my mom here to joke around with, not here or anywhere. I'm all alone in the dark and have no way home.

    I shiver as a gust of wind blows in from the water, the salt in the air stinging my eyes and sticking to my tongue. I don't even have a blanket or a towel. Isn't a towel what you need to survive on a deserted island? Or was that about hitchhiking across the galaxy? I get it all mixed up.

    The sky turns reddish-orange, and my stomach twists. It's a fitting color. The color of danger. This trip should've had an orange warning plastered across it: Don't go, Penelope. You won't be coming home from this one. Life rarely comes with warnings, though. The future is undetermined. A shuffled deck of random variables, with all of us waiting to see if we got a decent card. I've been given a really lousy hand. The only thing I can do is hope that the odds deal me a winning set.

    Before it's too late.

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