For any MAPs who are in the mood to feel even more depressed…and anyone else reading, of course.
It's been a week since Gilligan chose Gladys as the most beautiful woman on the island, and, though the women are all still a bit miffed, they have the confidence of knowing the opinions of the men who nominated them have not wavered, and the incident has been largely forgotten, chalked up as just another one of their zany adventures.
No one showed up to help with dinner and it's a little later today, so Mary Ann is out, spreading the word that it's ready. She's just coming to her second to last hut—the Professor's—and, despite herself, she smiles. Each day has been a little happier for her since he declared her the most beautiful woman in the world.
She's about to knock on the door when she hears giggles. Stealing a glance through the window, she stifles a gasp as she watches her world flip upside down.
They're in the corner, nuzzling and kissing, cozy as can be.
She draws in a breath, mustering all the strength she has, and opens the door. Sliding it across the sand, she casually enters.
"Ginger, Professor, supper's ready." Her voice is sickeningly sweet, and it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. They look up, obviously caught off-guard by her presence.
At least they have the decency to look guilty.
"Thank you Mary Ann." The movie star replies cheerfully, gracefully getting to her feet and sashaying past her, out the open door, as if nothing has happened. The brunette instinctively steps in front of the opening so he can't make a similar escape.
He doesn't even try.
She opens her mouth to speak, but the words won't come. Finally, with tears in her eyes, she forces them out.
"Professor, it…it didn't mean anything?"
"What, dear?"
A tiny iota of her confidence is recovered when she hears the word "dear" and knows it's in reference to her, but, deep inside, she knows it doesn't change the cold, hard facts.
"You choosing me in the beauty contest…you weren't trying to say that...you like me? Like that?"
He flushes, his face becoming tender, and he draws her into a hug. The warmth of his body against hers brings some comfort, but not enough to soften the words that follow it.
"I'm sorry, Mary Ann. I didn't mean to give you the impression that I was…romantically interested in you."
"You didn't mean it, then. You don't think I'm the most beautiful woman in the world. You just…"
"Mary Ann, of course I think you're beautiful. A man would be a fool not to."
The voice she answers in feels too calm, too serene.
"No. That's not what you think. No, you just felt sorry for me." A soreness she can't explain rises in her throat and her eyes burn with tears, but she won't let them fall. She rips away from his embrace and storms off in the direction of the supply hut.
She feels like she's just been torn in two.
He calls after her, but she doesn't listen.
I don't need him.
###
The last few strands of the pinkish orange sunset illuminate the supply hut as she steps in. The light almost blinds her, and for a moment she's in a purgatorial limbo, the place between numbness and pain. Soon it passes and fully gives itself up to the latter.
Searching the shelves, she finds the bottle of oleander rat poison she and Ginger made. She leaves the hut and takes it past the communal table full of questioning eyes and back to her hut, clutched close to her chest with both hands so no one can see what it is. Thankfully the Professor's left by the time she gets there.
Once she's sure no prying eyes can see her, she yanks off the cork. The bottle's about half full. She begins to tilt it towards her lips, but stops, a colossal fear gripping her stomach.
Does being poisoned hurt? How much? Could it hurt her anymore than she already is? The bottle slips from her hands—not entirely involuntarily—and lands on the ground, its contents spilling. She quietly watches as the liquid is eaten up by the sand.
No wonder he doesn't love me. I'm not even brave enough to kill myself.
It feels like the weight of the world is upon her as she lies back on her cot. She turns onto her stomach as the tears begin to silently seep out from somewhere in the deepest parts of her heart and soul.
And all she can think of is a set of lyrics she once heard on the radio:
Each night I ask
The stars up above
Why must I be
A teenager in love?