[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 bahiagrass 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 end 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 didn't I stay up with my little girl?"

"Why didn't I take her to a better doctor at a bigger clinic?"

"Why didn't I get her some stronger medicine?"

"Why didn't I do more to console my wife?"

"Why didn't I take her with me to the market?"

"Why didn't I ask our friends and family for help?"

"Why didn't I get to say goodbye before they died?"

"Why did I burn all my keepsakes?"

"Why did I try to kill myself?"

"Why did I 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 my wife, Sarah, and my daughter, Summer, think if they looked down from the heavens and saw me like this? Naked on this disgusting rock? Wasting away in a pool of my own piss and shit? Waiting for my life to end like some sick animal?"

"Would Sarah still be proud of her husband?"

"Would Summer be happy for her daddy?"

Unlike the whys, the what and the would all had an answer, the same answer in fact, and William HATED it.

"No, they would be ashamed of me."

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.

By the time William Busch made it onto the beach his hands and knees were bleeding. A broken oar had washed ashore and gotten stuck on some rocks within reach. With its help, William pulled himself back onto his feet. The wood of the oar had been treated well. Or maybe it just hadn't been soaking in seawater for very long. Either way, it made a fine walking stick.

A gust of cold air blew over the wet and naked William. As he shivered he glanced back up at the church to see the specter waving back. He took a moment to steel himself before trudging forward.

Up the hill, over some rocks, and through thorns and grass, William hobbled toward the church. The experienced huntsman kept his head down during the short trek, careful to avoid stepping on any snakes, potholes, or other unpleasant things that might be hiding in the grass of the unfamiliar island. When he finally reached the holy building, hurt, hungry, and exhausted, he looked up at the specter of the cathedral.

He couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry at what he saw.

William's spirit of salvation was a ridiculous-looking scarecrow done up to look like a pirate. Its head was made from a half-rotted pumpkin with a scowl made of chalk that was adorned with a tattered tricorn hat. The pumpkin sat atop a burlap sack body that had been stuffed with dirt. Attached to the bottom of the body, jutting out down and to the sides were a pair of “legs” made of dead tree limbs. The whole ensemble was held together in a sacrilegious manner by using a weathered stone cross as a frame. At one of the horizontal ends of the cross, where the figure's “right hand” should have been, was a meat cleaver tied to it with a rope.

With a sigh of resignation, William pushed past the stupid-looking scarecrow and into the church.

The church itself was small, William noticed. As far as he could tell from what was left of the ruins, it was a one-floor, single-room building. Maybe twenty-five hundred square feet. On either side of William were the ghostly remnants of the wooden pews where the parishioners used to sit. Not even termites filled those rows now. On the far end, being overlooked by a broken stained glass window was the raised stone podium where the preachers once gave their sermons.

Under normal circumstances, the religious William might have felt some sense of reverence as he looked over the hallowed ruins but his growling stomach and dry mouth kept his attention focused on more pressing matters. Thankfully, perhaps by the grace of the gods, there were some signs of life left in the church.

There was a faint smell of ash in the air. William had noticed it when he first walked in. When he looked around he could see why. Off to the side, in the middle of where a pew had been were the charcoal remains of a campfire. The huntsman hobbled over and pressed his pointer finger into the soot. It was cool to the touch. Maybe a few days old if he had to guess thought William as he remembered those voices he had heard when he first crawled onto that rock.

Weak, light-headed, dizzy, and delirious, William plopped down on his butt and took another long, hopeful look at his surroundings. Whoever started this fire was long gone and so was any hope the huntsman had of getting help. All he could do now was hope that they had left something, literally anything, behind that would provide even a morsel of nourishment.

After all, wondered William, the gods wouldn't be so cruel as to save him from suicide by sea just watch him waste away on land. Not after watching him struggle for the past few days. Not after watching him suffer through so much pain to reach a revelation and regain his will to live.

Would they?

“Do I smell fish?”

William wasn't sure how he missed it before. Maybe he had been too focused on the church and the campfire. Or it could've been that his nose hairs had been brined in ocean water which made everything smell vaguely fishy. Perhaps it was because he had a slight fever, lightheadedness, and a dash of delirium. Whatever the cause of William's inattentiveness towards such a vital detail, he did, eventually notice it.

Just a few feet to the side of the fire pit, among some trash, was the savaged corpse of a large mahi-mahi, crawling with ghostly white maggots and orange spotted carrion beetles. At the sight of this dirty, rotten, bug-ridden fish carcass William's stomach let out a primeval sounding growl and the big man suddenly found himself with both the strength and the uncontrollable desire to pounce on the fish like a wild animal.

Driven by survival instinct alone, William scoured the fish for whatever meat he could find left. He started with the sea creature's lacerated abdomen. First, his dirty fingers rummaged through the fish's innards for any minuscule morsel, rather muscle or organ, he could find. Once the remaining meat had been scraped clean from flesh and bones, William moved on to the bugs.

He gagged at first. The half-rotten fish, mixed with the odd taste (and texture) of the creepy crawlies made for an extremely unpalatable combination. He almost spit it out but the ravenous hunger commanded him to keep it down. By the second handful, he actually noticed a difference in the two types of bugs. The maggots were like squirming, wet jelly beans that tasted like moldy potatoes. The beetles, on the other hand, were crunchy, gritty, and tasted like expired clams.

After a paltry third handful, he realized there was nothing but bones left in the fish's hallowed chest cavity. Still starving, he scooped out the mahi-mahi's tongue and eyes. The tongue felt and tasted like sand but it went down easy enough.  The eyes were a different story. As soon as William bit down on them, they burst open in his mouth, leaving behind a warm, jelly-like substance whose taste reminded William of congealed goo at the bottom of a dockyard dumpster.

When he was finished forcing himself to swallow it, he tossed the skin and bones to the side and smacked his lips. His mouth was still dry and his stomach still growled. He rummaged through the rest of the trash for anything edible but found nothing except some crumbs of grain and a couple of pieces of cheese rind. He needed something more.

That was when he noticed another important detail that he missed. Catty-corner to the preacher's podium was a broken flower pot that had become filled with rainwater. The water was filthy with dirt and algae and, on its surface, floated many mosquitoes, but none of that mattered to him at that moment.

William nearly tripped over himself as he lunged toward the miraculous, salvation from dehydration. In one long, continuous swig, William sucked the water down his gullet, insects and all. When he was done he dropped the pot and let out a satisfied...

“...aaaaaaaaahh.”

But he still needed more.

A glint of sunlight in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Underneath the podium, was a fancy-looking wooden box. Completely clean and devoid of any noticeable wear and tear, it stood out in stark contrast to the decrepit ruins. Even its hinges, latch, and lock, which were all metallic, seemed modern and polished.

“Treasure?”

William hesitated before approaching the box. He was no thief and the box obviously belonged to somebody. He looked around. Aside, from the scarecrow, he was all alone. So where were they, he wondered.

“What if there's food?”

Consciously, he knew it was a ridiculous idea but he couldn't help himself. For reasons he didn't understand, he was stricken with curiosity about the box's contents. He grabbed a nearby rock and hastily smashed open the lock.

“Is that...a fruit?”

Inside was a black, rotten-looking fruit roughly the size of a durian. William hesitantly picked it up. It had a spongy, almost meat-like texture. Then he gave it a cautious sniff and recoiled in horror. The fruit was rancid. Like the decaying carcass of a dead rodent.

His stomach groaned again.

He was still so hungry. Besides, he reasoned, there were plenty of fruits that smelled putrid but tasted sweet. He pinched his nose and took a bite. To his astonishment, the fruit tasted worse than it smelled.

William felt sick.

A wave of nausea surged over him like a tsunami. He dropped to his knees and doubled over as his stomach churned and burbled with an intense, fiery pain. He coughed and gagged, then vomited up a pile of rank, chunky black bile.

When the vomiting stopped, the feverish chills and muscle aches started and the hellish burning sensation in his stomach intensified. William's face contorted in pain as he rolled meekly to his side and curled into a fetal position. He closed his eyes and tried to steel himself against the severe sickness brought about by the apparently poisonous fruit.

Worried that the sickness might never end and scared for his life, William passed out.