Far From Home
Written, edited, and proofread by
George Gordon-Tennant
Copyrighted 2015
The Awakening
The dawn air was cold. Moisture clung to the morning, giving the sun an opportunity to dance along the droplets. Waves washed the shore with sea foam and weeds that came loose from their underwater roots. Among them was a man dressed only in a black shirt, blue jeans, shoes and socks. He began to move, slowly at first but as the water splashed up his legs, he woke with a start.
"What? Huh? Where am I?" The man said to himself. Sitting up, he studied his surroundings. The beach was empty. He couldn't see anyone else, just trees, old beach chairs, umbrellas, and a few scattered buildings in the distance.
Picking himself up, he grabbed a small, black phone from his pocket. Sliding the screen up rewarded him with a few drops of water draining from the soaked through phone. He checked it a few more times before tossing it into the wet sand when he found a small flashlight and battery in his back pocket.
"Where did these come from?" He asked himself as he put the battery in the flashlight and turned it on. The light wasn't bright in the morning sun, but he saw it was working and put it back in his pocket. Brushing off the sand from his pants, he looked back at the ocean and wondered where he was.
He was on his friend's yacht the last he remembered. They had been sailing off the coast of Alaska, deciding to spend the last weekend of summer on the waters of the Pacific. He had too much to drink, blacked out and washed up on a foreign beach. He scanned up and down the coast. Nothing moved, save the umbrellas ripped fabric blowing in the cool wind. He gazed off into the deep blue water.
"Maybe if I ended up here.'' He said to himself, trailing off as he walked up the beach. Spotting a patch of clay, he knelt down and began digging a message.
'Vince, Doug, Henry. I woke up here and headed towards the town. Find me there. John.' He stood back and looked at the message. It didn't stand out enough so he took the time to fashion rocks and sticks around it. Satisfied in his work, he turned his attention to the houses.
John wasn't about to head into foreign land with just the shirt on his back. For a man who was six feet talk he wasn't very tough. He had dark brown hair, deep blue eyes and a strong jaw. However he didn't have any considerable muscle tone, nor could he run for long stretches. His past year of partying and careless attitude had landed him in a precarious situation and with the feeling of helplessness and isolation growing with each passing minute; he knew he wouldn't last long in the open. With one last look at the beach, he started for the closest house.
As John walked up the road, he felt the wind pick up. The breeze blew from the ocean, chilling the air. He could see his breath as he walked by an old shed. Catching something glint in the corner of his eye, he stopped. Gazing into the cramped, dark space, John crouched down and reached for the shimmer. He picked up three large shell casings. Dead grass fell through his fingers as he rolled them in his hand. The shells were caked with dirt, and the tips had been dusted with rust. John stood up and tossed all but one of the shells.
'I can take this home as a souvenir. 'John thought as he put it into his pocket and kept walking.
The air wasn't getting any warmer, and John knew that he had to find something he could do to help warm him up. He reached a small house on the gravel road. It had a small wooden fence bordering the property, shutters hanging off the hinges and the porch door was lying on the ground. John was hesitant to approach the house, but the cold air was beginning to make his fingers ache. Slowly, he unlatched the front gate, which creaked at it swung open. He slowly walked up the path, looking into the dirt caked windows. When he reached the front step he noticed the door was unlatched and rocking in the wind. He knocked, which caused the door to open slightly.
"Hello?" John called into the open doorway. No one answered him. "Hello? I don't mean to bother you but I'm a little lost." Again he heard nothing. The wind blew the door open, revealing a dimly lit foyer. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The house was in shambles. Walking through the open door into the kitchen, John called out again. The only sound he heard was the wind that passed through the cracks in the old walls. He noticed the table was overturned and the cupboards were left open. Who ever lived here had left in a hurry as he noticed scattered rags and bits of broken glass littering the floor. John spotted a worn black hooded sweatshirt lying on the floor by a dresser. He grabbed the hoodie and dusted it off. It looked like it would fit him, but he hesitated.
'Who's is this?' he thought to himself. 'I can't wear someone else's clothing.' John went to put the sweater down, but the warmth had found his fingers. He could feel his hands warm under the fabric as he held the sweater. As he slipped it on, he felt his skin warm instantly. The sweater was a little snug, but John would take the mild discomfort over the cold. He shoved his hands into the pockets and let out a sigh of relief. He sat down in one of the chairs and rubbed his hands together. As he looked around the room, his stomach grumbled, so he got up and walked over to the cupboard. Sliding open the door open only revealed three oddly shaped wooden dolls. He closed the cupboard and opened one of the drawers. He found an empty tin can and more broken glass. Leaving the useless items, he pulled open the second drawer and found a small flat can. The can had a tab on the top so he could open it without a can opener. John quietly thanked the growing hospitality of the previous inhabitants. He set the can on the counter as he picked the table off the ground and sat back down again, but stopped. He didn't know what was in the can, nor if the contents were still good. Holding his breath, he opened it. The can contained some sort of fish that John sniffed. Satisfied that it was still good, he ate some of it. Before he knew it, the fish was gone but his hunger remained. John didn't know what he should do. He still felt wrong about entering someone else's house, taking their food and clothing, but he also knew that had he not, he would have been in a lot deeper water.
John decided that it was time to go, picked up the can and started for the door. As he closed the kitchen door, he heard faint shuffling noises. He listened for the noise again, but hearing nothing, John closed the door. At the entrance, he spotted a note hanging on the back of the door. He tried reading it, but couldn't, so he left the house. 'Looks like Russian.' John thought. As he closed the door, the note fell to the ground. On the other side of the note were the words 'Here Grovenia. Go Estaravod. Survive.'
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