Page 92 of Bad Saint

“The rum?” he repeats.

I nod, unsure why he’s choosing to be so evasive.

“It’s under the tree, in the shade. Why?”

“Because I was going to use it to throw onto the fire,” I explain, fatigue overwhelming me.

My back is still turned, so I can’t see his face, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

“Let’s hope they saw the SOS then,” he reasons without any meaning. He couldn’t care less. Our only lifeline has just flown away, and he doesn’t even seem to care.

The fight in me has died, and all I want to do is cry myself to sleep. “I’m going to lie down.” I come to a wobbly stand as this is the first time since this nightmare started that I’ve felt absolute defeat.

Saint doesn’t say anything. And neither do I.

I stumble past him, unable to look at him as I’m fearful what I will see reflected in his eyes. Harriet Pot Pie follows me as we make our way through the trees. I travel on autopilot, a sense of doom shadowing us.

We trek the hill and enter the cave. I collapse onto the sleeping bag and tuck my knees to my chest. And here I stay, sobbing until oblivion comes.

Day 32

SOMETHING WAKES ME. Something ominous.

I gather my bearings and realize I’m still in the cave. For a split second, I believe the plane was a dream, but the hollowness in my chest reveals it wasn’t.

I don’t know how long I’ve slept, but as I rise slowly, my aching muscles hint it’s been a long while. I guess it’s well past midnight because when I look toward the entrance, it’s pitch black outside.

Something about today troubles me. I don’t know why, but I don’t believe Saint. He claims he didn’t hear the plane, but I think he did. I suppose my pent-up anger toward him could be clouding my judgment, but I guess there is only one way to find out.

Harriet Pot Pie stays where she is. She can sense the shitstorm moments away from erupting. I charge down the hill, adrenaline coursing through me. I can’t get there quick enough because I need to get everything off my chest, and when I say everything, I mean everything.

We will have our long overdue talk whether he wants to or not. However, when I emerge from the trees and onto the shore, it seems we’re way past talking.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I roar, coming to a sudden stop.

There must be some mistake. My eyes are surely deceiving me because there is no way I am seeing this—seeing Saint destroy the SOS. But when he turns over his shoulder, completely guilt-ridden, I know there is no mistake.

“I asked you a question,” I cry, covering my mouth with a wavering hand. He’s demolished endless hours of work because all that sits before me is rubble. “Saint! Why?”

He closes his eyes for the briefest of moments before tipping his head backward with a groan. “I had to,” is his lame ass reply.

“You had to?” I repeat, anger exploding from me. I storm over to him and grip his bicep, forcing him to look at me. “Why?”

I am shaking in rage, and I cannot contain it.

“Because we will do it my way,” he arrogantly replies, shaking free from my hold.

“What?” I stagger back, his pride almost winding me.

“I will get you off this island. I promise. The raft is almost finished—”

“Fuck the raft!” I bellow. “That SOS was the best way of being rescued. Now it’s ruined!”

“Just trust me,” he has the audacity to say.

“Trust you?” I spit, disgusted. “The only reason I’m here is because of you.” An epiphany hits, and I snicker. “You can’t stand that I’m the one who might save us, can you? You selfish asshole!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps, folding his arms firmly.

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