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What I don’t like is how she keeps refusing to eat. She has to eat something. Otherwise, she’ll die.
“Eat,” I say again, losing my patience.
I hold it up to her mouth and wait until she opens it. She takes the tiniest of tiny nibbles and chews on it with a face that reminds me of the ones I saw before I was on this island … back when I still thought I could adapt to their world.
My face darkens as I watch her chew with reluctance until she swallows and coughs immediately after.
I nod and hold out the meat again.
“No, no more, please,” she says, her voice croaky.
I grunt and place the jerky on the nightstand beside the bed. Frustrated, I turn around and leave the hut, slamming the door shut behind me.
I wish I understood women, but I don’t. I don’t fucking understand any person, at all.
That’s why I live on my own, and having her here only reminds me of that fact.
Maybe I should’ve gotten rid of her, after all. It would’ve saved me the trouble of looking out for her, feeding her, giving her my bed.
Goddammit.
I grasp the ax from the box outside and begin chopping wood. It’s the only thing I can do when my mind is going in circles. I need to get this shit off my mind and focus on work. Things I can actually fix, instead of … women.
Why do females have to be so complicated?
I gave her food, and she’s not even thankful.
She won’t eat, she didn’t thank me for rescuing her, and she keeps running away.
I sigh and ram the ax into the block, letting out all my anger on the wood.
I refuse to give up. I made my choice, and I’m sticking with it. I will just have to tame the girl.
One way or another, she will eat, and she will adjust. Maybe in time, she’ll learn to appreciate the island … and maybe even start cooking for me.
Yeah, that’d be nice.
Her, me, a spit-roast on the beach, and a fur blanket to cuddle on.
My mouth waters at the thought.
Maybe this girl destroyed some of the jungle, but it doesn’t have to all be bad.
She could be my woman.
That’d definitely be nice.
Chapter Six
Accompanying Song: “One Of Twelve” by Johann Johannsson
Juliet
After rubbing the back of my head with water and a piece of fur, he gave me more jerky, but I refused. I still don’t know what he was doing when he rubbed the water all over me, but as it was a wound that had only just started healing, it hurt.
I just let him do it so he’d let me be afterward, and he did, luckily.
I’ve been sitting here hungry all day long, but I still prefer that over eating that jerky again.
I can still taste it in my mouth even though I’ve tried to wash it down with water plenty of times. Nothing works.
I wish I could go out and find some herbs or something, some plants, anything. I could cook them and make a veggie stew with a fire. I know how to find the good ones, the plants you can eat. But he won’t let me walk around in his hut, let alone untie me so I can go search for real food.
I grumble and lie down on the bed. I have to admit it’s comfortable with this fur on top, but I can’t help but feel bad for the animal that had to suffer. Did he make this on his own, like everything else in this hut? Is this how he lives? Like a savage in the jungle? A wild man?
Goose bumps scatter on my skin.
I can’t imagine what it must be like if he has … he’s been alone for all this time.
No one’s on this island. I remember that well enough from all the research we did before we decided to make the trip to come here to study the wildlife. We specifically chose this location because of no human interference.
But it has … because he’s here.
Living on the island as if it’s his home.
Maybe it is.
But why would anyone want to live here? So desolate and far away from any human contact? He must’ve chosen here for a reason …
But why?
Does he want to be left alone?
Or did something happen that made him flee here?
I take a deep breath and sigh. There’s no point in worrying about things I can’t change.
We’re both stuck here now on an island that won’t get any more helicopters or ships until the call is made for a pickup.
Suddenly, I shoot up from the bed.
That’s it.
The call.
That’s my way back to my own life. My own home.
A telephone.
I frantically search my pockets but find nothing. Of course, I left mine in my bag … which must still be in the helicopter somewhere.
