A/N: Hey, everyone! So I'm back with another GI one-shot. I have actually been wanting to write this for some time, but I wouldn't let myself until I finished writing the next chapter for my other GI story, Surviving Until My Last Breath. Since you obviously see this little piece published, it means I have completed my goal. I decided to take a short break before I began the dreaded task of editing Chapter twelve and wrote this little baby here.
Notes: So this one-shot was inspired by several of Doll Girl's hunter's fics and a few others. I don't know if I succeeded or failed, but I wanted this one-shot to be a reflection story like Magnet for Disaster and Twisted by Teobi, Out Sulking - Back Tomorrow by Persadia, and Petals by AThingofBeauty. So far, the new year is not looking so bright for our family. There have been two funerals we had to attend this month: one a young teacher we were semi-friends with who either died of bladder cancer or being in a wheelchair and my parents' friends' son who committed suicide a week ago, leaving his wife and three kids under the age of two. So death has been around me a lot lately and I got to wondering about some things involving the subject.
Warning: Mention of dying and death in 90% of this one-shot. Don't read if the topic makes you uncomfortable. Gilligan might be out-of-character in this, but I tried my best to keep him in character.
I'm happy to say finally that this one-shot has now been seen and edited by a wonderful beta by the name of NursingStudent. Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to look over my little tale for me. You're the best.
Disclaimer: I don't own Gilligan's Island. Sherwood Schwartz does. I just enjoy playing with the characters.
Gilligan's Point of View
He lay still on his back, wounded on the sandy, cold ground of the cave. His slim body was surrounded by a puddle of crimson red as it seeped out of his two bullet-related injuries (you might want to say gun-shot wounds for more impact): one in his stomach and close to his right side and the other was in his left forearm. He didn't know if it was because of the large amount of blood loss (which he tried to staunch with two of his white handkerchiefs yet failed to stop), lying in the pool of his own blood, or the chilliness of his makeshift shelter, but whatever the cause was, he was powerless to halt the uncontrollable shivers that mercilessly attacked his injured form.
The sun was shining brightly and the temperature a nice 75-degree Fahrenheit despite being in January (it was a tropical island, after all), but none of that mattered to him. He didn't care because the sunshine and warmth was blocked from entering the rocky cavern and reaching him, bathing him in its love and wrapping his figure up in a nice, warm blanket with its rays. However, the cave couldn't fully stop the light from coming inside the dirty walls, brightening up the mouth of his temporary shelter, but never quite managing to reach him in the middle of the room.
He stared up at the dark ceiling, waiting as patiently as he could for the other castaways to come find him, while trying his best to ignore the hunter's corpse that rested motionless outside in the small clearing. His ocean blue eyes were fixated on a spot he couldn't see, due to the lack of lighting in that particular area, but he didn't care because he was lost in his thoughts.
As he waited for his friends to arrive, his eyes pensively gazing on the roof of the cavern, he couldn't help but think. Actually, that's all he could do: think. He couldn't go anywhere for even the slightest movement resulted in hot flames cruelly licking his wounds, both inside and out, forcing him to cry out in agony. So he hoped and thought, the latter helping him to get his mind off his suffering while the former was the small hope of being found before time ran out.
What was he contemplating about, you may be wondering? Well, he was thinking about one of the many mysteries of life: death.
Why was death so mysterious all the time? Why was it that only the people who were waiting to be called, waiting to leave Earth for good, knew what death and dying was like? Couldn't there have been a book written about the subject, detailing everything a person needed to know on it? Or science studies being taken, just something to get the needed information back to the living. Maybe then, everyone wouldn't be so afraid of dying? Afraid of the darkness of death?
If all of us knew the topic, everything we needed and wanted to know, all their questions being answered honestly and correctly, maybe no one would be scared of the unknown? Of whether they were good or bad enough in their previous lives to warrant a permanent stay in Heaven or Hell, or possibly somewhere in between?
And speaking about dying, what was it like? Some individuals speculate that it was painless and instant, like falling asleep once your head hit the pillow and never waking up. But the ones who had experiences like that were usually ready to go and lying in their deathbeds. It didn't seem like the sailors and soldiers that were once Skipper's friends, who died bravely during the many battles, met their end painlessly. Most of those men were probably heavily wounded and too far away to get medical attention. Some of them could have survived if the help they needed were close by, but there were possibly some people who were so near to the other side that it wouldn't have matter if they had received medical aid or not. It would have been too late for them to be saved.
Admittedly, this was the first time he was ever shot and, geeze, did it hurt! If what he was feeling was a small indication of what those men in wartime, who were riddled with gunshots wounds, felt like; then they couldn't have possibly died without some sort of pain? He wasn't at war with another country, in familiar or foreign waters, with guns and bombs going off in every direction, but the two gun injuries he got from trying to hide from Jonathan Kincaid were similar in pain to those received in war. The excruciating agony he was experiencing wasn't like stubbing your toe or being stung by a bee, it wasn't a sharp pain or sting that lasted for a short time. It felt like pure you-know-what, like someone was torturing you constantly and without mercy, doing everything he or she could possibly do to increase the level of your suffering.
In other words, getting shot by a gun was no picnic. Certainly, those sailors and soldiers who laid badly injured with gunshot wounds thought the same thing.
But back to what he was contemplating about earlier. In some cases, dying didn't hurt and was easy, with no problems or worries to deal with. But there were other individuals who felt the complete opposite: To the men who had to face the anger of guns in battles, who lie cold and wounded in their blood, restlessly waiting for either help to come or to just take them away from everything. To the men, women, and children who didn't die immediately in car, train, airplane, and ship wrecks. And those who were innocent of any crime being committed or were in a wrong place and time. Those particular cases were never without suffering and difficulties. So where and how you met your end mattered greatly, for it could mean pain or no pain as your final moments on Earth dwindle away.
Was death an actual person? A being who took over the unpleasant job of taking souls from people's bodies when it was time? Or was death an entity, a thing that existed like fate? But if Death was a person, what gender would it be? Would Death be a female? A male? Or neither, like the Devil could be? But if he or she was a creature, would it be good or evil? Or just plain and simple Death? A mixture of both good and evil or neutral and just? Did Death actually like the job of taking souls or was there resentment towards it? Was Death forced to take the job because someone had to do it? Someone had to be in charge of picking up the dearly departed souls because if there was no one, then how would the souls get to their final destination? Or even to the right place? Wouldn't it be awful if you discovered you went to your wrong destination? Well, maybe not. It all depends on where you're actually supposed to go in the end.
Did the majority of individuals only think about death when they had a near-death experience? Or even on the brink of death? He knew there was a minority who talked and even wrote about death because he had had to read some books and poems that were considered classics in school that made him cold and alone. Yes, death was just a part of life, something to keep the balance of humanity equal without tipping either sides of the scale. Nothing about dying should be frightening. It was just a way of life.
Yet, reading and even talking about death wasn't something he was really comfortable with. Which was fine because he was a happy and carefree kind of guy and didn't want to be weighed down by such a sad subject. Plus, there were others just like him that weren't comfortable discussing something like death. As mentioned before, there were people (probably a majority of all humans on this planet) that were afraid of the unknown, and dying was completely and utterly unknown and secretive. It was just a fear that most individuals have, including him, who hoped they would never meet death until it was truly their time. After all, everyone has goals and dreams in their lives that they want to complete before passing over. Yet it was a shame when there were people who died at such a young age; before they could complete their many goals and dreams in their lives.
But was it true that when a person is close to death, that he or she sees their life flash before their eyes? Do they see the good, the bad, and the ugly: and the highs and lows and past regrets, things they wished they had done or not done that might have made or broken them? Wishes to better themselves, not for more money or to impress a special individual, but to enhance one's life. To be a person who they are proud of instead of hating themselves for something they did or didn't do, or their one-of-a-kind appearances compared to their peers. If we had more time to do the things we want to do in life, would we take the extra time and accomplish those things? Or would we take it for granted and waste it, like almost everything else we do? Never meeting our goals and dreams, even with the extra time we were given to reach them. Certainly, the numbers wouldn't change no matter if there were extra time or not.
However, the one thing he does know is that death was big and small, vague and specific. It was mysterious and unknown and frightening to many people. Death, whether it was a person or entity, could be far away or nearby, lurking and waiting around the corner to snatch you up, to take you away from everything you have ever known while living on this planet. It could be good, bad, or neutral and just. It was all those things and more, so much more than we, humans, know and couldn't possibly know when it comes to the topic. The surface has barely been scratched despite the subject being mentioned over a zillion times.
But whatever it was. Death was there and a part of life and there was no changing that. Sooner or later, all of us will meet eye-to-eye with death, but hopefully, when we are old and gray and laying in our nice, warm beds at home. For no one should leave this world without the opportunity to experience the joys and sorrows that life could give them.
Suddenly, he heard approaching footsteps outside of the cave. Could the footsteps possibly belong to Ramoo, Kincaid's henchmen? He wondered as he kept quiet, not wanting to be found if it was, indeed, the Asian man.
A second or two later, he heard a loud gasp of surprise and someone swearing before the sound of rushing footsteps drew nearer and nearer to his hiding spot.
"Is he…?" a familiar loud voice asked.
"Yes, I believe so," another familiar voice, this one soft spoken replied a minute later.
"Then if he is here, then where…?" the baritone voice trailed off, the sound tremulous. Like the owner of the voice was fearful about the fate of something or someone he cared about dearly.
"I don't know, Skipper. But he couldn't be too far away from here. See, there a small trail of blood right over here, and over there are more spots of it. Whatever has happened here, it didn't end well. Kincaid's been shot, but the trail and spots of blood I see can't possibly be his. It's too far away from where he's lying. So…"
"So, you're saying that Gilligan's been shot as well."
"I'm not saying that, Skipper. I'm, however, saying that Gilligan appears to have been hurt."
"Oh, God, no! Gilligan! Gilligan, little buddy! Where are you?"
Skipper is here and the Professor too. They found him! They…Wait, he halted his moment of excitement when an important thought crossed his mind. Shouldn't they be back in their jail, guarded over by that native goon while waiting for the hunt to be over? Unless…unless the hunt was over and Ramoo let them out…
Well, whatever had happened, he didn't care because he was found! He wouldn't have to die on this cold and sandy floor, all alone.
"Skipper! Professor!" he yelled as loud as he could.
"Gilligan, we can hear you. Where are you at?" He heard the intellectual ask.
"I'm in the cave," he announced before adding unnecessarily, "And I'm hurt with two bullet wounds here."
Once again, he heard fast approaching footsteps, this time coming in his direction. Seconds later, he saw a wonderful sight as his ocean blue eyes took in the view of the two men standing in front of him, relief evident on their handsome faces as they saw him. However, the relieved expressions didn't last for long once they noticed the amount of red fluid he was still losing which surrounded his frame.
Eyes widened in alarm and the pair hurried to where he lay, kneeling down on both sides of him. The captain quickly pulled out a clean, white handkerchief from his pocket before gently shifting the blood-soaked ones he still held fruitlessly against his bare injury on his abdomen. Then the old sea dog replaced the crimson red cloths with his own, pressing down hard against the wounded site to stop the blood flow. He hissed in pain from the action and the Skipper was quick to apologize.
The Professor followed the sea captain's example, but instead of pressing down on the injury in his forearm, he first examined the small hole made in his slightly tan skin as trails of red fluid, both new and old, traveled down the length of his arm. Then, he took the handkerchief he held in his hand and tied it tightly around his forearm, over the wound. Once again, he hissed in pain, but he knew it had to be done. If he lost any more blood, he could bleed to death.
"Gilligan, buddy! What happened?" The Skipper asked him, gently grasping his right, blood-covered hand in his large one, ignoring the fact that he now had his first mate's blood smeared on him.
"Kincaid," was all he said in a way of an explanation.
"Kincaid? He shot you," Skipper stated, since it could only be the hunter. The madman was the only one beside the young sailor that was running around the island with a rifle on him.
"Yeah, he shot me. Twice."
"Then, what happened to Kincaid?" The scientist cut into the conversation. "How did he end up dead, Gilligan, if he shot you twice? And how did you get in here if you were shot outside?"
"He may have shot me two times, but he aimed at me three." After seeing the confused expressions on the men's faces, he continued to explained, "Ricochet. Kincaid's third bullet missed me since I managed to somehow get out of the way in time and it bounced off a boulder behind me, hitting the man. He collapsed in front of me once the bullet went through him." He paused to take a breath, gasping in agony from the firm pressure on his injuries and the shaking his body was still doing because of the cold. "And I crawled. It about killed me, but I wanted to get away from the guy. I didn't want to see him in front of me or anywhere near me, actually."
"Well, it doesn't matter now. He's won't be coming back to hurt anyone ever again," the Professor said as he checked his stomach injury.
"Heh. Good riddance, I say. That guy was a menace. Hunting down a human being for sport, for a bit of entertainment. I say we are better off without him."
"Indeed, Skipper," the scholar agreed, doing one last quick check on the two wounds before standing up. "Let's get him back to camp so I can take care of those bullet wounds. Gilligan," he said, turning away from the old sea dog and focusing on him. "The Skipper is going to carry you back. It's going to hurt but it will be faster than going to camp to get a stretcher and coming back for you. Okay?"
"Yes," he agreed, more than alright with the idea of leaving the cavern as soon as possible. "Just do it. I'm tired of laying on the ground and I'm freezing here."
As soon as he said that, he felt his form gently being lifted from the sandy floor before being held in strong, muscles arms that promised to always take care of him, no matter what may happen in the future. He was safe and protected now.
"Rest, little buddy. We will get you back to camp as soon as we can. Just rest for now."
And he did as he laid his head on the broad shoulder of his Skipper, his eyes closing in a troubled sleep.
Thankfully, there would be no calling for him today.
A/N: I hope you enjoy this oneshot despite being such a dark and uncomfortable subject. Please tell me if you like it or not, or what I can do to improve my writing. I welcome freely constructive criticism, but don't be mean about it. Also, I would like to mention that I have a community dedicated to Gilligan Island called, It's All About Gilligan. Please check it out. I currently have 77 stories right now.