Page 42 of Stranded

Weston raises an eyebrow. “I’ll remember that when your ass is hanging out of a leaf skirt.”

That sets them off. Their laughter blends, bouncing across the sand, filling the space around me. The warmth of it brushes against me like sunlight, and for a breath, I almost lean into it.

But then the sound swells, and something inside me snaps.

That sound. The deep, easy laughter of men.

It hits me like a slap.

Suddenly, I’m not on the beach anymore. I’m thirteen again, heart pounding as the laughter of strange men echoes around me in the jungle. My body remembers before my mind does. The panic climbs fast. Cold sweat breaks out on my neck. I can’t breathe.

I stumble to my feet and the laughter cuts off abruptly. But it’s too late, I need to get out of here, I need to breathe.

“Zee?” Weston asks, his voice softer than usual. But I can’t hear it properly over the roar in my ears.

“I have to go,” I choke out, already backing away. My feet move on instinct, the way they always do when the world starts closing in.

“Wait—” Kingsley starts, but I don’t stop, my feet pound on the jungle floor as I race back to my hammock, to my safe place.

I need space. Air. Distance. Anything to stop the storm breaking loose inside me. I’m aware that I’ve left McStabby at the beach, but right now, I don't care, I just need to be alone so I can breathe again. Being around them right now reminds me too much of the past and I can’t handle it.

I blink and find myself lying in my hammock, Steve clutched to my chest. I don’t even remember making it back here, my mind mostly blacking out as instinct drove me to run.

The sun is still bright in the sky, but I feel emotionally exhausted. That, combined with my lack of sleep lately, has my eyelids drifting closed.

When I open them again, the sun has moved. It looks like it will be nighttime soon. I put Steve back in his resting spot between branches and make my way down the tree.

I don’t want to see anyone right now, but there are some things I need to do before it gets too dark. Food, water and a bathroom break.

I move through the trees for a long while before I make my way to the ground. I stand there for a minute, listening for any signs of them, and when I’m sure they aren’t here, I move to the pond and scoop up handfuls of water, quenching my thirst and making sure that I drink enough to last me until morning. My waterskin was in my bag that I stupidly left at the beach. Maybe I should go back and get it? They probably aren’t there anymore, anyway.

But when I see where the sun is, the jungle already starting to darken, I decide I don’t have time. I find a few guavas, as they’re the closest fruit, and eat one straight away, before slowly making my way back to my hammock.

When I reach my tree, I debate which way to go. Up to the safety of my hammock, or down, towards where the guys probably are.

“Just a quick peek, to make sure they’re okay,” I whisper, trying to convince myself this is for them, not me.

As I get lower I see my bag, sitting in the same place Bower put it last time, at the base of the trunk, behind the hut. Knowing they left it for me, even after I ran out on them so rudely, makes my chest constrict with guilt, but there’s something else there, too… hope.

I hear murmuring from inside, so I quietly make my way around the hut and closer to the door, where their voices are loudest.

“... No idea.” I recognize Kingsley's voice and strain my ears to try to pick up more of their conversation.

“Did I do something wrong?” Bower asks, making the guilt in my chest intensify.

“No, she’s suffering. Something clearly triggered her, but I don’t think it was anything we did, “ Weston tells them. “That’s thething about trauma. The smallest thing can set it off; a look, a gesture of the hand, a laugh.”

I suck in a sharp breath.Is that what this is? Trauma?

My mind races and I, once again, flee from them. “We need to give her time and space, but I don’t think we should stay…” Kingsley’s words trailing off as I loop my bag over my head and climb back up to the safety of my hammock.

I clean my teeth and change into the black ACDC t-shirt. Grabbing Steve, I lay back in my hammock as their words bounce around my head.

Trauma.

Of course, I know what trauma is, but I never associated the word with myself before. It feels too… big, too important. What I went through was awful, but was it traumatizing?

I think about my reaction to blood on my hands, to the way I mistook a hug for an attack, to how their laughter sent me running, to my nightmares and how thunderstorms give me panic attacks.

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