The island (short story)
It's the third night Cramm spends under the cold stars, wondering if he'll ever get out of this island alive. Or worse, if he was already forgotten. There's a fate worse than death. And that's it. Oblivion.
His makeshift tent keeps the elements at bay, but not the music. It started on the second night. He couldn't sleep thinking about the events that brought him there. The argument, the words, the hurtful stares and empty threats. 'I'm gone, you'll never see me again.' The next day he found himself stranded on an island unknown to men. His only company that music. The tune that won't let him sleep. It stops in the morning, but he needs the daylight to look for food, supplies, anything he can use to survive. Tired, he goes. 'It shouldn't be long now.' Cramm tries to remain optimistic. 'There's no way they could all forget me. Not like this.' And yet, the voices never come, there he remains, alone, in his own little island. The night falls and the music ascends. It keeps him awake wondering and wandering in his own little mind. He wonders if the problem has always been him. He wonders if he could've been a better person. Not so prideful, stubborn and more loving, caring, empathetic, patient. He wonders about the what-ifs, the what-nots, the what-yes. All the opportunities, all the paths, all the choices. All to the sound of that sweet, melancholic music.
On the seventh day he starts dancing to it. Cramm knows it by heart now and finds himself humming it. It has become his friend. His only friend. He desperately wants out, but that music is fire. A fire he can't burn out. Cramm almost wishes no one ever finds him. 'It's better like this.' he says under his breath, starving to death. He lost all motivation to search for food or water. All he needs is that music. Incessant, relentless and, most of all, comforting.
On the last night, as Cramm went back to the rack he liked to call bed, he couldn't hear it anymore. He lied there for what seemed an eternity. He tried to move but couldn't. 'Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?' he kept asking himself like a man going crazy searching for his wallet or car keys or trying to tie his shoe lace that breaks at the last minute. He tried to hum it, but where did it go?
It was already too late.
When the music stops, even the richest soul finds himself lost. Or worse, forgotten.
His makeshift tent keeps the elements at bay, but not the music. It started on the second night. He couldn't sleep thinking about the events that brought him there. The argument, the words, the hurtful stares and empty threats. 'I'm gone, you'll never see me again.' The next day he found himself stranded on an island unknown to men. His only company that music. The tune that won't let him sleep. It stops in the morning, but he needs the daylight to look for food, supplies, anything he can use to survive. Tired, he goes. 'It shouldn't be long now.' Cramm tries to remain optimistic. 'There's no way they could all forget me. Not like this.' And yet, the voices never come, there he remains, alone, in his own little island. The night falls and the music ascends. It keeps him awake wondering and wandering in his own little mind. He wonders if the problem has always been him. He wonders if he could've been a better person. Not so prideful, stubborn and more loving, caring, empathetic, patient. He wonders about the what-ifs, the what-nots, the what-yes. All the opportunities, all the paths, all the choices. All to the sound of that sweet, melancholic music.
On the seventh day he starts dancing to it. Cramm knows it by heart now and finds himself humming it. It has become his friend. His only friend. He desperately wants out, but that music is fire. A fire he can't burn out. Cramm almost wishes no one ever finds him. 'It's better like this.' he says under his breath, starving to death. He lost all motivation to search for food or water. All he needs is that music. Incessant, relentless and, most of all, comforting.
On the last night, as Cramm went back to the rack he liked to call bed, he couldn't hear it anymore. He lied there for what seemed an eternity. He tried to move but couldn't. 'Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?' he kept asking himself like a man going crazy searching for his wallet or car keys or trying to tie his shoe lace that breaks at the last minute. He tried to hum it, but where did it go?
It was already too late.
When the music stops, even the richest soul finds himself lost. Or worse, forgotten.
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