Drowning In Isolation

Prologue

The island of Acheron is widely known as the Isle of Death. The isle is a kaleidoscope of monochrome colors, travelling wherever death calls like a moth to a flame. It is said that if impending doom is near, you would be able to spot its distinguishing black sands and ashen palm trees from the horizon. For centuries, the isle has been untouched by the hands of men, remaining pure and isolated from civilization. Until him. 

He was stranded. He had been for the past seven days. He wanted to go back home. He did not want to be on this strange island. He missed his tiny shack on the edge of the town, and his old dog, which would sit on the porch, wagging its tail and watching the merchant’s trolleys whiz around. 

Every day since he arrived, the young boy would kneel down into the black sands, clasping his hands together and tilting his head up into the sky. He would feel the warmth of his breath on his palm as he whispered, “ Exalted Hermes, god of travellers, grant me your divine favor. Let me escape this island and return to my homeland.” 

He prayed and prayed and prayed until the sun was no more than a grain of light on the horizon. There was an answer of silence.

On day 13 of his stay, the young boy decided he had to change tactics. He reasoned that unless he had something to offer the gods, they would deem him as undeserving of their wisdom. For what use is a prayer without a sacrifice?

“Almighty Hermes, accept m-my offering.” 

Lifting the lamb into the sky in an offering to the gods, he slowly brought the kris closer. He clenched his jaw, fist gripping the sharpened stick so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His arms, which held the thrashing lamb, trembled harder with every second that passed. Exhaling shakily, he clenched his eyes shut, whispering for forgiveness as he made the sacrifice.  

It was as if his chest was being torn apart, the crushing weight of guilt and regret crashing down upon him. The boy stood there, long after the sun set, cradling the lamb as if it would fix what he had done. He could still feel tears streaming down his face, taste the metallic salt that continued to trickle down his neck. It felt as if craters were carved into his face by the continuous cascade of tears, his cheeks swollen, red, and raw. Something in him had shattered, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to restore it.  

The boy did not know what to do. He wanted so badly to escape this godforsaken island, but he was unsure of whether or not his damning actions could be justifiable for the pursuit of his own happiness. It was selfish, he concluded. But he decided to continue nonetheless.

On day 51, the boy was frustrated out of his wits end. He was truly alone, all but a puny fly entangled within the fine silken tresses of a spider's web. Akin to the meagre insect, his fate was already written out for him, no matter how hard he tried to escape his imprisonment. He had no choice but to await his end, like an impatient hourglass waiting for its final grains of sand to fall to the bottom. 

On day 52, the boy had lost all hope. Life was utterly torturous for him, as he had no purpose to live for. It was like dangling on the edge of a cliff, endlessly unable to pull himself up from this predicament. So, the boy decided that he would simply let go. 

He was taking a stroll around the island, reminiscing about his stay here, when he spotted a bright red flower in the soil. Curious, he crouched down, plucking it up to his nose and took a whiff of the aromatic odor. Tossing it into his mouth, he ground its petals between his teeth, tasting the pungent flavor of its corolla. It was almost like an ice kris, numbing his brain after the incineration of a thousand suns. Like how a venus fly-trap snaps up its prey, the restless thoughts crowding his head fluttered away, leaving nary a speck of conviction. The boy smiled, taking a while to enjoy the peacefulness the flower brought. It would probably be the last thing he enjoyed. 

Seeing the alluring rays of the sun inching down the horizon and the streaks of copper that began entering the ether, the boy knew it was time. Strutting down the island's fine black sands, his sharp eyes scanned the coast for the instrument on which he would deliver his final song. 

The boy abruptly stopped in his tracks. Eyes widening, he rubbed them with his calloused hands, squinting to make sure he was seeing clearly. Instead of finding a weapon, he found something else much more intriguing. For after spending months in solitude, he was no longer alone.  

He had finally found something worth living for.

It was day 161. The boy and his friend had been inseparable since they had met. Every night, the boy and his friend would venture around the island in search of the addictingly sweet taste of the ruby flower. Most nights would be spent scouring every inch of the island for just a morsel of it, as if they couldn’t find solace without it. The boy had also taught his friends of his daily sacrifices, and his friend eagerly joined. 

Sometimes, the boy’s friend would try to come up with more creative and entertaining ways of sacrificing the animals. The boy was utterly repulsed by his friend's actions. He still remembered the first time he had to sacrifice, like a sin tattooed into his skin. Still felt the crushing burden of his actions, like how Sisyphus had to bear the eternal weight of the boulder. But, in fear of disappointing his only companion here, the boy followed suit. 

Today was day 192 on this island. 

With every rise and fall of the sun, the boy sacrificed one animal to the gods like a meticulous machine. Lamb, fish, birds of all sorts have had their lives stolen away in the name of the gods. Today, the boy had a goose to sacrifice to the gods. 

The boy felt guilty admitting that he enjoyed the daily ritual of sacrificing the animals. It was the only activity that made the boy feel emotion in his numbed mind. The pleasure, relish, and delight he felt distracted him from the isolating thought that he would probably never make it out of this island alive. 

But deep down, hatred boiled like a volcano about to erupt. The gods did not deserve his offering, he thought, scowling. The gods have never answered his desperate cries for help, so why should he honor them with his sacrifices? 

Maybe my sacrifices aren’t good enough. Doubt snaked into his thoughts and lodged inside his mind like a thorn. He glanced at the goose. It was nothing special, a pathetic creature of black and white feathers. I shall find something better tomorrow, he decided. Something worthy of a god.

Days blended into months like watercolour paint. The boy no longer kept track of time, but like clockwork, he continued to offer animals to the gods. He did not remember why he sacrificed them daily, only that he had done this for as long as he could remember, and it brought him solace from the suffocating thoughts in his mind.

The boy no longer saw his friend anymore. He did not know where he went. He did not care enough to find out. 

Every night, the boy would hunt for the once abundant flowers that had become a scarcity. He found he had become dependent on the thought-clouding flower, like crippled man with his cane, and without it, he seldom slept a wink. 

One evening, the boy spotted a wooden raft floating towards the island. Ecstatic, he jumped up, wading through the water and bringing it to shore. This would be perfect to use as firewood tonight. He beamed. 

Now, all that was needed to make his night perfect would be if he could find the island’s depleting supply of mind numbing flowers to distract from the chaos within.

Some things are better lost than found.