Doctored Chance #NaNoWriMo2019

6|Message in a Bottle

The volcanic island on which Tobias sat scribbling a note with his unfavored hand has gone through many names over the decades, which is why I will not puzzle my readers with supplying its current calling. With the island's owner now fled, it was due to fall into new hands in a matter of months and be called a different thing for the seventh time that decade.

Centered in the bay between East, West, and Central Benediction, the volcanic island was the perfect spot for villainy, scheming, and unhealthy reclusive behavior, complete with likely toxic sulfuric fumes. But, besides being in the middle of everything, its location served Tobias a purpose; predictability.

The sea flowed into the large bay and circled the same path every day, as it had for eternity. The current traveled around the small reef at the mouth of the bay and swirled first along the pristine white beaches of the East, towards the industrial front of Central Benediction, and eventually meandered to the black sand of the West before slipping back out to sea.

Tobias, despite the decaffeinated, groggy fuzz of his visions, trusted in those currents to aid his escape.

On the inside of a cardboard bandage box that he'd torn apart for a canvas, he used a chunk of basalt to etch a streaky and difficult-to-read message. His cheeks were red with frustration and focus as he struggled to close off the note. His left hand trembled with the effort of directing the basalt over the board, unused to such labor.

"Bring m... morphine," Tobias murmured, scraping the word tediously over his canvas. Sweat trickled down his brow and freshly salted his burns. "And burn... gel... and water... and food... AND coffee, and..."

He stopped, biting his blistered lip, and crossed out the last 'and'.

"Please... come..." He gave an anguished moan and shook out his hand before reclaiming the makeshift pencil. "... Discretely."

I can vouch that Tobias MacClain once had the finest cursive handwriting I have ever had the pleasure of envying. The journals preceding the injury of his right and favored hand were written in a font so fine and elegant, that if it weren't so depressing to read, I wouldn't have hesitated to frame a page and put it on my wall.

The bandage-box note was so far from this level of paragon that when I found it sodden and limp and reeking of fish and engine grease in the East Benediction Dump, after much digging, I almost kept searching. I'd mistaken it for a child's homework, tossed from from the nearby elementary school where the little rascals were still learning to write.

I took the carboard home and dried it, and now the note is kept underneath piles of papers, folded into a hidden compartment in a locked box that I have since buried in an unknown location, because it was too dreadful to lay eyes on. I have rewritten it for my readers with my typewriter, which is much easier to look at:

PLEASE DIRECT THIS MESSAGE TO P.O BOX #267, EDUCATION DISTRICT, EAST BENEDICTION.

I HID WHEN SNOWPEA CALLED AND TOLD YOU OF ME. I AM NOT DEAD. I NEED HELP. PLEASE BRING MORPHINE AND BURN GEL AND WATER AND FOOD AND COFFEE AND

PLEASE COME DISCRETELY. TELL NO ONE. I TRUST ONLY YOU (AND TEDDY).

I WILL EXPLAIN.

COME AT ONCE.

Tobias grimaced, hissing air through his teeth as he read over his work. It would have to do, he decided. He folded the cardboard into a long, squashed roll that was reminiscent of a scroll, but much less elegant, and shuffled around the inside of his bag to find a bottle.