Lost Alone
Danielle had finished burying the others. The last scoop of dirt had been thrown upon the heap. She gingerly placed the crosses she had made with twigs and dental floss at the head of each of the graves and mumbled a French prayer under her breath. "I'm sorry," She said. "I couldn't let him take you."
Walking back to the safety of her dwelling, Danielle could hear their spiteful voices whispering curses at her. They were spitting on her with their taunts, telling her she foiled their plans-it was all her fault. They used to bribe her, try to persuade her to join the others; now they drove her insane by manipulating her guilt to win her soul.
Danielle climbed down to the cool room she had made in the time she had been on the island. Alex was huddled in the corner like a frozen statue, his knees drawn up to his chest, tears streaming down his face like a lost child hiding from the world. His icy gaze met hers, cracking the fragile facade she prized. He hated her; he would be frigid toward her until they could get off of No Where and maybe even after-if after ever came.
"You killed him," he hissed. "It's all your fault he's dead."
"No, it's not."
He stood in front of her now, next to the table littered with belongings. "It's your fault we're here, your fault they went insane."
"No."
He slammed his fist down, rattling the items. "Stop denying it! You could have saved him, but you didn't love him enough. He loved you so much, but you weren't there for him! You don't love me enough."
He still had a child's fury in him. He still threw tantrums and pouted. But seeing him now, his veins bulging, his cheeks stained from his painful sobs, she knew he was no child anymore. Seeing him pick up her music box and throw it against the wall, she discovered he wasn't innocent in his actions-he acted out of spite; he picked up the piece memorabilia that reminded her most of his father and smashed it into pieces. He destroyed her love and left her to wallow in the broken pieces of her life.
Danielle pulled a disposable tissue out of the box she had put in her suitcase years ago, then, setting it down, she reached for the tattered handkerchief in her pocket to the waterworks away. There was something comforting, familiar a handkerchief compared to tissues. Tissues were dry and informal, they weren't friendly, they weren't a shoulder to cry on again and again. They were to be used and thrown away.
She was surprised the cloth still caught her tears. The moths had gotten to it and had eaten holes in its fabric. She had owned the handkerchief as long as she had been on the island. Her husband had given it to her six-seven-nine-ten-no, she didn't remember how long ago he had given it to her.
How long had she been on that island now? Her son had been eleven then, and he was a man now.
However long it had been, she was alone now. Alex had left her. Her husband, her friends-co-workers, her son, all of them were gone.
She could hear the voices again. They were telling her she was all alone-as if she didn't know.
"I'm alone," she whispered over and over again, cradling the broken pieces of the music box in her arms. "I'm alone."