I don’t know which way is up, and my lungs are burning, straining, with the effort of holding air that’s not enough to sustain me. I start to panic that I’m suffocating and the instinct to gasp in is something I have to fight with my entire willpower. Swishing my arms and legs around in a bid to swim to the surface, but every direction is a formidable black wall of nothing. I can’t even see the car anymore. I don’t know what’s down, up, left, or right.My gut pulls me one way, something like a sixth sense, that it’s to oxygen, and I kick with fury and extend my arms in a grasping motion as I fight as much a is can to find light and air. It’s a good guess, and as my face breaks the surface, I gasp with all my might to breathe it in before I’m plunged back under with the reactive force up my upward thrust. A moment of relief, followed by the reality that I’m far from safe.I resurface with less gusto, clawing at

I run until I make it to the edge of the road, an actual tarmac and straight road, that I fall and kiss with utter gratitude. Tears are welling up to blurriness. A gritty, cold, rough surface that hurts my parched lips, but I’ve never been so happy to see something manufactured in all my life. I can’t describe the elation and aching chest pain it gives me. The truck is long gone, and I stare off in the direction it went, along a long road that curves off out of sight, and I gaze both ways, trying to figure out which would be the shortest route to a town. One might be close; one might not. Or maybe I’m being too hopeful, and it stretches for miles either way with nothing at all. If I have any chance of being rescued, I have to stick to the tarmac and not stray. Roads mean people, and people mean being saved. I am not going to give up. I get to my feet and follow the truck's route, hoping it’s the right choice.I watch the sun all day as I w

There’s bubbly infectious energy about this girl, and I like it. She reminds me of Yoonah when he was younger, only somehow with a mature ability about her and far less clingy. I wish I’d known someone like her growing up and had a friend that resembled her. Although if we’re the same age, it feels like I’m about ten years older in maturity. I nod and force a smile that isn’t meant and close my eyes in the hopes she walks away to give me space.I hear her footsteps move off and then the creak of a chair and the scuffs of a book being opened and flicked through. I sigh with relief and relax into my comfortable mattress.I listen to the beeps and hums of the machines carrying on around me and lay as still as possible, just happy to not hurt as much. Now I’m fully awake and compos mentis, I have nothing else to do but think. They’ve doped me on pain relief for my minor wounds and a significant headache, and I do feel sleepy, but e

“Why stay here if it’s this desolate? You can only make money half the year?” It sounds like my idea of hell, and I curse at my inability to access the millions of dollars in my bank accounts that I haven’t dared confess to her I have. It seems a little like rubbing it in her face when she uses duct tape to keep her rucksack in one piece.“I like it. I came from a pretty messed-up background with no stability, and my kid died when she was two. I needed somewhere pressure-free to go and find a reason not to end it all. This island is like a healing balm and resembled nothing in my past to give me bad memories.”“Your kid…. ?” The words catch in my throat, and my heart somersaults. Pain splicing me, and I turn my head to see the sadness in her eyes. A mirror of how I feel anyti

“Sometimes, I struggle to like you; you know that.” Greta comes up behind me, and as furious as I am and caught up in my rage, her words hurt me, and tears fill my eyes instantly. She’s never one to mean it when she says things like this, but my lip trembles, and I bite it to stop it from showing. My feeble idiot feelings when it comes to my only real friend in this place.“I don’t care. I never asked you to like me.” Greta has this magic ability to make me an emotional and vulnerable mess with the click of her fingers. I spit it out like a child sulking and keep my head turned away, so she doesn’t see how easily she brings this on nowadays.“Whoever taught you that it was okay to be this way was wrong. Whoever told you that you weren’t allowed to make mistakes, or cry, because your hurt, or sad, or angry, or scared, or know you messed up…. they did wrong.”“Don’t okay. I don’t