I liked all of Connie, though, as she led us up the middle of the stream that day.
And she actually did stay that way.
She never got a chance to revert.
The self-centered, whiny, pushy, obnoxious bitch had taken her last bow.
In a way, I almost wish she hadn’t turned into a caring, decent person for her last hour or so. Might be easier. Maybe I wouldn’t miss her so much, now. On the other hand, it’s sort of nice—even wonderful—that she wasn’t being a shit toward the end of things.
God, I miss her.
I miss her almost as much as I miss Billie and Kimberly.
No, not really. Who am I trying to kid?
I miss Connie a lot, but I miss Billie and Kimberly worse. It kills me to think that I’ll never see them again.
And yet, here I sit.
Writing in my journal instead of going to find them.
Why is that?
Simple. If I go looking, I might get killed. God knows, I barely escaped with my life last time.
I’m fairly safe here.
Wesley and Thelma probably think I’m dead. At least for the time being.
Also, there’s one other thing.
I really do not want to find any of my women dead.
Which is what might happen if I go looking.
I’d hate that.
It’s better, not knowing. This way, I can at least hang on to the possibility that they might not be dead.
Or not all of them.
If even just one of them is still alive…
If I had to choose one, I wonder which would it be? Not Connie, I’m afraid; she was a bitch too much of the time. Not nearly as attractive as her mother or half-sister, either. She was better than plain, but both of them were beautiful.
So it’s between Billie and Kimberly.
It would be sick for me to choose which of them should die. So let’s say this: which would I rather have living with me till we get rescued from here?
(If we ever do get rescued, which is seeming less likely all the time. God, what if I have to live the rest of my life on this island without any of them? Just me. Never mind. I want to go on with my game of who to pick.) Kimberly or Billie?
Not an easy choice.
Kimberly is a hothead, sometimes. She can be awfully tough and scary, and would definitely take charge of everything. She would run my life. Which might not be such a bad thing.
Billie is more easy-going and sensible. She’s sweet, cheerful and compassionate. She wouldn’t push me around. We’d be like great friends. We already are—were—awfully good friends, I think.
Obviously, the smart pick is Billie. We’d be great together. Making love with her would be incredible, too. She has a fabulous body, and knows it, and would probably relish the chance to share it.
I’d give anything, though, for just one time with Kimberly.
Who am I kidding? How about one time with anyone?
Losers can’t be choosers.
Speaking of losers, I should stop playing games and go out and try to find Kimberly, Billie and Connie.
Not yet. I can’t go and look for them until I’ve caught up on my journal. It might be the only way anyone will ever be able to learn what has happened here.
And it gives me an excuse to stay put.
Also, the writing of it helps me to remember them. I describe what they did, what they said, what they wore and how they looked, and it’s almost as if they’re with me again.
I have them with me whenever I write about them.
Hey, here’s a thought. Maybe I’ll never stop writing about them. When I catch up to the present, I’ll just start making things up. Just to keep going.
My journal can turn into the literary equivalent of the Winchester House. I just keep going, building more rooms for my ghosts.
Not a bad idea, but I don’t have a hell of a lot of paper left.
When I run out, I’ll start writing in the sand.
Here lies one whose name was writ in sand.
That was somebody’s epitaph, I think. Keats?
This is far off the track, and getting weird. I’m too tired and way too depressed to go on any more right now. Anyway, it’s almost dark.
I’m going to quit now.
Tomorrow will be plenty soon enough to finish off what I can remember about how we got creamed. Then things will be up to date, and then I’ll have to figure out what to do next.
Build a staircase to the ceiling, perhaps???
Oh, God.
I wonder if they are dead.
If not, what the hell is happening to them—being done to them—while I sit here lonesome on the beach fucking around with this stupid journal???
Night Journey
This is the next day.
Last night, I got brave. Or, more likely, just desperate.
So this chapter won’t be about our “last stand,” after all.
Fine with me. I’m not exactly looking forward to the task. I will get to it, but not right now.
Instead, this chapter will be about what happened last night.
After dark, I snuck upstream for a look at the scene of the crime.
It started out as a way to stop feeling like such a worthless loser. I was taking action. I would stalk the night, revisit the places that held such horrible memories, face what had happened to us, and search for answers.
Maybe I would find my women alive, and rescue them.
Maybe I would find their bodies.
Maybe I would come upon Wesley and Thelma, and slit their throats.
I had my razor.
I was Rambo.
I was Rambo until I left the beach behind. The moment I waded upstream into the shadows of the jungle—and out of the moonlight—I stopped being Rambo and became Chicken Little. I could see almost nothing, just a few pale speckles and scattered tatters of dim light that somehow made it down through the trees.
I was tempted to turn back. If I went on, I would probably fall in the dark and bust open my face.
I went on, anyway. Taking tiny steps. Hunkering down low so I wouldn’t have so far to fall. Keeping both my arms forward to catch myself.
That way, I made slow progress up the stream.
I fell several times, banging up my hands and knees but not getting hurt in any serious way.
Frequently, I stopped to rest, stand up straight, and stretch to get the kinks out. Then I’d bend over again and continue on my way. In spite of the rest stops, all the bending tired me out and made me ache. I finally decided to take my chances and walk upright.
It felt good, walking tall.
I had farther to fall, and the falls hurt more, but I felt sort of proud of myself. I stayed high and even quickened my pace.
Sometimes, I felt as if Billie, Kimberly and Connie were walking with me through the night. I couldn’t see them, but they were there. In front of me, behind me, wading by my side.
Other times, I felt alone.
Worse than alone. There can be comfort and peace in being truly alone. The bad kind of alone is not when you’re all by yourself, but when your only company is an unseen stranger, imagined or real, creeping toward you in the dark. You have nobody to help you. There’s no safe place to run. All you can do is keep going and hope for the best.
That sort of aloneness gives you goosebumps scurrying up your spine. It makes your scalp crawl. It makes you feel like someone has shoved an icy hand against your crotch.
That’s the way I felt, off and on, while I was making my semi-blind way up the stream last night.
Off and on.
Coldly spooked when I felt the loneliness.
Warm and safe when the women seemed to be with me.