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Prologue
What are you supposed to do when you see yourself on the list of missing persons? It’s definitely not for the faint of heart. Seeing the file and the pictures of the horrors that occurred on the island will be a heinous reminder for the rest of my life.
I’m sitting in a cold, metal folding chair in front of a desk with paperwork piled high in manilla folders. Some of the paperwork is partly hanging out of envelopes. While I glance around the rest of the room, I realize paperwork is also strewn across the tops of the other desks. They cover the giant, over-the-top, blank calendars, hiding the meaningless monthly tasks. Police officers may look put together, but their offices tell another story. I can’t help but notice one file on the desk in front of me that keeps grabbing my attention.
Staring at it intently, I realize that the onyx hair, storm cloud gray eyes, and flushed cheeks in the picture are supposed to be me. It’s shocking how different a person I was. Shocking that I’m no longer the same girl in the photo. That’s not me. Seeing my face printed in black and white, paperclipped on the folder is unnerving. It's almost like I’m staring at a stranger.
I eventually look away from the desk before me–the only thing that seems to capture my attention. I can't help but look down at my hands. Where else am I supposed to look? What am I supposed to see other than the horrors playing on a loop inside my mind that are now displayed everywhere I look?
I may have escaped the island, but I will live there forever.
Locked in my own head, forced to relive every minute.
Every second.
I swear, I can still see the fresh crimson blood embedded into the crevices of my nails. I know I’ve washed my hands so many times that some of the blood I think I’m seeing probably belongs to me. And yet, when I blink, all I see is reddened skin and the yellow-tinted color my nails have taken on.
"Ehem, Miss?" I blink a few times before I finally look up at the source of the voice. He’s young and timid. I stare at him for what seems like an eternity. Sympathy pours from his soft eyes as he holds my stare until he becomes uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to the other.
This kid doesn't know what to say, does he? Fuck, I don’t even have words for what happened.
Another man, a bit older, comes and nudges the young officer. They make eye contact, then look back at me. The younger one shakes his head and walks away at a loss of words. "Miss, I know this is hard, but you need to tell us your name and what happened,” the older man says in a calm but firm tone. "Unfortunately, we will have to have you admitted into a 72-hour hold if you do not cooperate. Miss, can you at least nod that you understand what I'm saying?"
I move my head up and down slowly. Of course I understand what he’s saying. I just don't know how to process all these emotions. Am I supposed to cry, or am I supposed to smile and pretend to be thankful that I am alive?
"I understand what you’re saying, Officer. I'm just not sure what to do now. I never thought that I'd get this far. I've dreamt of getting off of that island for months."
I shudder in my chair, moving my arms to gather them around my midsection. It isn't necessarily cold, but I need constriction. Pieces of me are slipping. My mind, my body, all of it, is trying to fall apart and my arms are the only thing that will hold them together.
I pause for so long that when I begin to speak again, I have to clear my throat before my voice can be heard. "I still don't want to believe that any of it is real. That it isn't a bad dream. I can't comprehend that I'm actually alive."
The older officer just stands there and stares. The central heating kicks on and a slight draft stirs across my chest. The only smells in the room are stale coffee, menthol cigarettes, and dust from the heater kicking on for the first time of the season.
He finally finds his voice and begins to speak in a more hushed tone. "I just need you to try and tell me what happened." He starts to offer his hand then drops it in discomfort. He cocks his head to the side, pointing in the direction of a private door next to a corkboard. "Let’s go to a more quiet area. Please?"
I wish he were here holding my hand, but he can’t be. He isn’t here right now. He isn’t here when I need the support and the physical contact. I miss his touch, his warm embrace. Anything. Everything. I need him. I crave him. As soon as I leave, I need to seek him out.
With my pulse racing, I stand up, reluctant to go somewhere private. Before I walk to the other side of the room, I grab the photo of the 'old me' from the desk.
I grasp it firmly in both hands and sigh. "I will tell you everything that has happened in the last six months." I take a shaky breath as the first tears slowly roll down my now pallid cheeks. Clutching the key that hangs from a silver chain around my neck, I begin. "It all started on the fifth of August. The day that simultaneously ended yet began my life."
Beach
Six Months Earlier
The ocean will always be a place of serenity and peace for me. As a child, I used to draw silly little pictures of me and my parents at the beach. One giant blue patch of water in the middle, one equally large brown patch for the sand at the bottom, and white for the sky on top. My father was always on the left, while my mother always on the right. I always placed myself perfectly centered on the page, holding their hands and smiling. Even as a stick figure.
I used to dream that one day we’d move to the beach. My dreams have always been so vivid. I keep a dream journal and a pretty pen on the nightstand next to my bed to document the dreams of soft sand and the comfort of the waves crashing on the shore.
Setting my feet onto the warm sand and allowing it to seep through my toes brings a chill to my bones. Goosebumps rise on my arms, my heart flutters, and I let out a giant sigh. My best friend and I try to come out here at least once a week, centering ourselves and relaxing from the stress of daily life. We sit in silence with no need to talk, just listening to the waves, almost like our very own weekly therapy.
Once we get to our spot, we start setting up our things. Aimee grabs her extra-large towel decorated in green, orange, and pink sea shells. She shakes out the sand that remains from the last time we visited.
My best friend is the total opposite of me. She’s 21 years old and is about a head taller than me. Most people think that she dyes her hair in a salon, but it's a natural golden blonde. Her eyes are almond-shaped and a deep hazel color. She is sweet but filled with a massive amount of energy that can rival a puppy. It’s always non-stop with how she can jump and move around, talk about things without end, and always make someone smile. She will always be my best friend, no matter where we end up.
And then, there’s me.
I am 22, five foot five, with gray eyes. Most of the people I've met in my life have complimented me on my eye color. I don’t see the appeal to the lackluster color they throw off. Random strangers have approached me, interrupted my conversation, and just started saying the most random things. "Your eyes are like the stormiest seas,” or even, "I feel like I can see into my soul just by looking at you." It's fucking creepy if you ask me.
