Giving Pieces

Standing in the sand, the loner stood at attention, scanning the horizon.  He didn't particularly need to; there were always passersby.  The silent vigil was more for himself.  An affirmation of will and rationalized lunacy.  Warm water caressed his toes, the salt burning the exposed skin on his left foot.  He used to enjoy the feeling, or so he guessed.  It had been a while.

The cuts weren't as deep as they once were.  Shallow and wide, but no longer to the bone.  He had learned to manage the damages.  He could trace the cuts up the leg and across his torso.  Red and painful, and patterned carefully, they intertwined with scarred tissue throughout.  There were no unblemished parts, not until the right wrist and just below the right hip.  The division of clean flesh from ruined was no coincidence, but a calculated need.  The right was needed still.  To write or to run.

The other curiosity was the small circle of damage making a small circle around his chest.  Inside the mostly untouched circle was a deep wound, long sealed but irreparable.

Feeling the cool breeze blow across him, he looked behind, taking in the view of his home.  The island was home to his favorite things.  Intangible or tangible, he had never wanted here.  He briefly considered turning around and crawling back into his bed, but dismissed the idea lazily.  Quitting made a certain sense, but he couldn't make peace with it.

The ships sailed all around, going here and there.  Sometimes he could make out patterns in their movements, others only moved beyond his vision.  Every now and again he would see them so close he could imagine joining, an earnest passenger, but chance wouldn't see it through.  The ships, he realized, simply didn't have time to stop at every island with no reason.  Despite being in open sight, there was anonymity in the number of islands in this patch of sea.

Truthfully, he didn't know why he wanted to be picked up.  He was comfortable at home.  He once told himself it was the thrill of adventure, but he wasn't so sure.  The call was greater than a sense of accomplishment.  Getting off this island wasn't a game, it was a want.  Something swelling from his being.

A grim smirk crossed his face as he closed his eyes, and his body tensed up.  He mulled over what this new message would be.  They once were long and detailed, but nowadays they could be short and pointless.  The irony wasn't lost on him:  The long ones were more hopeful, but the short ones didn't hurt nearly as bad.

He steeled himself one more time, and produced the knife from his uninjured hand.  Gripping the right leg, he laughed and looked at the pristine skin he hadn't cut.  What good was playing safe, truly?

The cut was clean and deeper than he meant, but perfect for the message he had chosen.  Shaking slightly from the adrenaline, he scribbled his affirmation into the skin, wrapping it up and tossing it into the sea.

As it bobbed up and down with the motions of the water, he relaxed and fell to sit and watch the sunset.  It wasn't a particularly poignant message, and yet he felt satisfied knowing it may get found.  Someone might see and learn his simple letter to the world:

I am here.