[Episode] A Fresh Start of Sorts

“Am I alive?” wondered the naked, water-logged wretch as the waves dumped him into the rocky shallows that surrounded Centaurea.

The pathetic creature called William Busch retched, coughed, and then threw up what felt like a gallon of seawater. Barely conscious, he grabbed the top edge of the large, flat rock in front of him. Then he pulled himself up and out of the ocean using only his arms. This was followed by another fit of wet, hacking coughs and the expulsion of more seawater.

As William began to regain consciousness he slowly and steadily became more aware of his surroundings.

He could feel things.

Things like the harsh sun that broiled his wrinkled, blistered skin. Things like the salty air which felt like sandpaper on his back. He also felt pleasant sensations. Like the kiss of cool water that came every time a wave broke against the rock. Or the rock itself, which was smooth and oddly cool with a slimy texture thanks to all the moss and bird shit on it.

He could hear things.

Like the soothing, rhythmic breaking of the waves below. Or the irritating, irregular screeching of the gulls above. He could hear the occasional splash of water and buzz of an insect somewhere outside his peripherals. He could even hear some voices faintly in the far-off distance. He wondered if those were a hallucination.

He could taste things too. Mostly salt and blood with just a touch of seaweed and the subtle aftertaste of dead fish. The taste went from William's lips to the very back of his throat.

William rubbed his eyes as his pupils slowly dilated and adjusted to the bright sunlight.

He could see things.

Things, like where the ocean ended just a few meters away and a shore made of boulders and gravel began. Just beyond that was a line of weeds and prairie grass punctuated by the ghastly-looking remnants of a long abandoned church. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn he saw a specter at the entrance where the doors used to be.

The evidence was undeniable thought William. He was still alive. Only one word came to mind with that realization. A single syllable that dripped with disappointment.

“Fuck.”

For two days and two nights, William stayed on that rock. Flat on his back with his face toward the sky. He never moved once. Not to eat. Not to drink. Not even to defecate. He just laid there, in his own fetid waste, still as a corpse, hoping to die.

It would be so easy, he thought, to try and take his life again. He just had to roll off that rock, put his face in the shallows, and drown. But of course, he couldn't do it. Every time the thought occurred his muscles would twitch but then he would freeze. Somewhere in his brain was some subconscious instinct that simply wouldn't let him.

Try as he might, he just didn't have the strength to fight against it.

By the first sunset, his suicidal ideations had largely died down. What came next was a barrage of whys.

Why hadn't he stayed up with his little girl?

Why hadn't he taken her to a better doctor at a bigger clinic?

Why hadn't he gotten her some stronger medicine?

Why hadn't he done more to console his wife?

Why hadn't he taken her with him to the market?

Why hadn't he asked for help from friends or family?

Why didn't he get to say his goodbyes?

Why did he burn all his keepsakes?

Why did he try to kill himself?

Why did he fail?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

A million whys, a million times each, and not one satisfactory answer.

By the second sunset William had run out of whys so he just wept until he was out of tears then tried to weep some more. Finally, after the second sunrise which marked the beginning of the third day, William asked what?

As in...what would his wife, Sarah, and his daughter, Summer, think if they looked down from Heaven and saw him like this? Naked on a rock, wasting away in his own filth just waiting pathetically for his life to end. Would Sarah be happy for her husband? Would Summer be proud of her daddy?

Unlike the whys, the what and the woulds had answers, and William didn't like them.

William's stomach let out a loud growl as he sat up and looked over at the church in the distance. The specter at the entrance was still there. A spirit of salvation thought William, or possibly damnation, he realized.  That was for the gods to decide. William stared at the spirit for a moment of quiet contemplation then he spoke.

“My family is dead,” he rasped.

It hurt to speak. His lips had become hard and dry. Burnt by the sun, wounded by the salt, and deprived of any moisture except for the occasional splash of a sea spray, they cracked and bled painfully with just the slightest movement. Same for his gums. In fact, his whole mouth felt like it was made of sand and kindling.

But the worst was his throat.

The insides of William's throat had become red and swollen to an extreme degree. With every movement of his neck, every breath he took, word he spoke, or attempt at swallowing he made a sharp, dagger-like pain emanated from the inside out.

Yet despite all of that and despite knowing there was nobody else around, William felt like he had to speak. He NEEDED to get the words out so that he could move on.

“My family is dead,” he repeated to the specter. “My home is gone. I have lost everything. But I'm still alive. I need to survive.”

There was another moment of quiet contemplation following William's affirmations, then he rolled off the rock. The large man splashed into the warm, shallow water with all the grace of an anchor. William dunked his head under the water to wash away the grime that had accumulated in his beard and hair. Then he got back up to his feet.

He only made it a few shaky steps before he collapsed again. Days of starvation and dehydration had taken too much of a toll on him. He barely had the strength to stand, much less hunt or fish, he realized and it wasn't like he could subsist on grass and rocks. His only hope was the church. He just had to pray there was something in there that could save him.

Getting on all fours, he crawled, like an infant, toward the shore.