The Man On The Island [COMPLETE]

Lost

? — Day ?

I haven't written in days! Weeks?

How long have I been here? I've lost count. I try to save what little paper and pencil I have left for coherent thoughts. But there's no more room for hope on these pages.

I write these words for whomever finds my body and wonders what happened to me. So here goes...

My name is Sean T. Platt (although the world knows me not under that name). I was on my way back from my European tour when my private jet crashed, killing six of the closest people to me, and effectively leaving me stranded on this godforsaken island.

The shark left. Food returned, and so have the storms. My shack was destroyed by yesterday's winds. I watched it fly away, piece by piece, as it shattered my resolution with every new leaf that got torn away.

Rain makes the wood wet and it has become incredibly difficult to light a fire to cook the fish I pull out of the water. I now eat them sushi-style. And to think I always hated sushi before... It's all I can do not to gag and throw it all up again.

I think that, when it comes to it, if I can choose my own death, starvation could be an option...

***

? — Day ?

It's been three days, I think, since my last entry. And when I woke up this morning, something quite formidable had happened. Fog. The whole island had disappeared into the fog. I loved the eeriness of it, the silence. Gone was the endless ocean separating me from civilization (and a good bath). No more wind to tear apart my achievements. No more limit to the land I was walking on. I could imagine myself on a beach somewhere on the east coast. My feet exploring the sandy stretch while I'd be aware that, beyond the cloud, there was still a town. There was still life.

For a brief instant, I could escape this nightmare and lose myself in a dream.

***

It's the afternoon now, and the fog has lifted. But the eeriness seems to have lingered behind. An event occurred that can only have one explanation: I am going insane.

As I was walking on the beach, I found—cliché of all clichés—a bottle with a rolled-up message inside. My thoughts briefly whispered, "buried pirate treasure," but it didn't last. And my heart sank at the mental image this bottle was forcing in my head. Some other unfortunate soul was trapped on an island, much like myself, reaching out to the world in a silent call, and awaiting a rescue.

A sudden urge to write back to the guy swept over me, and I picked up the bottle in haste. The impracticality of the attempt didn't even strike me. I removed the cork, freeing the message inside. But as I unrolled the paper, my heart stopped at the sight of the words on it.

They were nothing more than a mere SOS.

A man calling for help after he found himself stranded on an island after a terrible accident. Nothing extraordinary in my circumstances. But what terrified me were the words themselves: they were written in my own hand! Only I had no recollection of ever sending a message in a bottle.

Hell, I didn't even remember finding a bottle around here before now, let alone a cork!

I honestly had no idea what the fuck was going on (still don't), but I knew it freaked me good. So, I re-bottled the message and tossed it as far away from me as I could.

And I can now pretend that I dreamed the whole thing.

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The last part of this story will be uploaded here tomorrow (Oct. 25th)!! Stay tuned!