Page 83 of Bad Saint

Day 21

THREE WEEKS HAVEpassed since I was kidnapped. How my life has changed since that day. I’m beginning to forget the small comforts like TV, toilet paper, and running water because being out here in the wilderness is slowly becoming my norm.

Saint seems to be getting better, but his constant cries for Zoey cement that once he wakes, we will go back to the way things were. His journal still lays untouched because I’m frightened to know what’s inside.

I don’t want to believe that he’s the monster he claims to be because if it’s so, what does that say about me? I allowed him to touch me, and I…liked it. And even now, I know nursing him back to health will ultimately lead to my demise. But I can’t let him die.

I know that makes me a fool, but I couldn’t live with myself if I took someone else’s life. My subconscious never fails to remind me that Saint has no issues whatsoever doing so.

Shaking my head, I continue gathering coconuts because after working all day, I’m tired and hungry.

The SOS is finished. I was expecting to feel some sense of accomplishment, but the moment I laid the last stone, it hit home that for the past eleven days, I haven’t seen a single soul. No passing planes or ships. It’s like we were forgotten.

But I can’t sit around, twiddling my thumbs. I need to at least try. In the back of my mind, I wonder what would happen if we were rescued. I would have to tell my rescuers everything, which would lead to Saint getting into serious trouble.

What would that mean for him? And Zoey?

My mind has been stuck on a loop these past two days because no matter how badly I want to get off this island, going back home will prove to be harder than being stuck here. Being lost seems simple compared to the shitstorm of being rescued.

How messed up is that?

Trudging back up to the cave, I look forward to passing out for a few hours because I am beyond exhausted. Harriet Pot Pie is grazing near the entrance. She’s really proven to be good company because, without her, I would be talking to myself.

The fire crackles, illuminating Saint. He hasn’t moved from when I left him this morning. I changed his dressing, and I was happy to see his wound looked less infected.

Dropping to a squat, I gather the coconuts and the molokhia, which has been his diet for the past couple of days. I go to work, breaking up the molokhia and mixing it with the coconut juice. I grind up some Tylenol and add it to the mix.

Just like always, I settle his head onto my thigh after I sit down. “Okay, are you going to make this easy for me today? Or will you continue to be a giant pain in my ass?” Placing the coconut shell to his lips, I slowly feed him the concoction.

I’ve learned to do it gradually as it allows more of it down his throat. “You need to shave,” I say to his comatose form, brushing my fingers through his thick beard. “You also need a bath.” I’ve tried my best to wash what parts of him I can, but I draw the line at a sponge bath.

Yawning, I feel my eyes grow heavy, but I continue feeding him. “I’d give my right arm for a pepperoni pizza right now.” My stomach grumbles at the thought of eating anything but fish. “If we ever get off this island, I am going to eat for a week. I’ll start at Dot’s, where they make the best homemade butter pecan ice cream in all of LA.” My mouth practically waters at the thought.

I’m lost in visions of velvety ice cream and completely unaware of my surroundings. So when I hear a winded, “I’m…more of a rocky road fan,” I scream, as it sounds alien to hear another voice other than my own.

“S-Saint?” I gasp, blinking quickly to ensure I’m not seeing things. But when those chartreuse eyes focus on mine, I know that I haven’t slipped into a food coma. “Oh, my god, you’re awake!”

I know I’m stating the obvious, but I didn’t know if I’d ever look into those eyes ever again.

I immediately remove the coconut shell from his lips and help him into a half sitting position because he can’t do it on his own. He blinks once as if attempting to gather his bearings. “How long was I out?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“Five days,” I reply, while his mouth hinges open.

“You’re fucking with me, right?”

I shake my head slowly, pulling a face.

“How is that possible?” He grips his side, wincing as he shuffles backward to lean against the wall.

“The night of the storm, a tree fell and knocked you out cold. I dragged you up here and thought you’d be okay once you woke up, but you had a fever. I didn’t know why, but your stab wound, it was infected, hence the fever,” I explain, biting my lip.

He nods slowly, appearing to process everything I’ve just said.

“I fed you the molokhia and bathed your wound in it. You said it helped speed up the healing process.” When he cocks a brow, I smile. “I do listen every so often.”

“It appears so,” he replies, flinching. He’s still in a lot of pain. “You must be hungry. Let me catch my breath, and I’ll find us something to eat.”

When he attempts to push off the wall, I place my arm over his chest to stop him. He peers down at the barricade deliberately. As much as I appreciate the sentiment, it’s not necessary. “I’ve got it.”

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