The Altruism Trial

Chapter 12: Another Storm

The story so far: Riley makes the fire and cooks the fish, earning the opportunity to eat with Paisley and Duschan. However, Duschan continues to give Riley a hard time, saying he’s useless and that he has no respect for the French language. When Duschan dumps Riley’s dinner into the fire, Riley finally loses his cool.

Morning

“Riley.” A voice calls out to me. I know it’s Paisley but my face hurts so much—my entire face hurts.

“Riley.”

My lashes are practically glued shut. I pick at dried blood along my nose and forehead. The waves wash up against my limp body. I listen for Paisley’s voice again—hoping she doesn’t leave.

“Riley.”

“Yeah?” I reply. It’s hard to talk. It’s hard to move, but I sit up anyway. Her hand touches mine. The sun is high in the sky. It’s possibly late morning.

“You know what I’ve learned about being on this island?”

I shake my head.

“I’ve learned not to give up on someone,” she says “J’ai appris de n’abandonne pas de personnes. Je t’aime beaucoup, Riley.”

I’m confused. Did I miss something? What did

she say? There’s sand in my teeth. My eyes slowly open—my lids still sticking to the crusty bits on my skin.

Paisley continues. “You’re used to having things your own way, right?”

I nudge one shoulder in an attempt to shrug. “You’re one of dose kids who will complain loud enough, and you get what you want.” Paisley leans into me and brushes sand off of my face—something my mom would do. “You want your lunch, your mother will cook it, yes? You want the crusts cut off your sandwich—your mother will remove them, yes? You want a new phone—your mother will buy it, yes?”

I pick at my eye and study her face.

She continues. “And what happens if you don’t get what you want?” She leans in and pulls something out of my hair. “You complain. You yell. You whine. You insult. You hurt. Right?” I shrug again.

“You want some money? Daddy or Mommy will give you some. You got a bad grade? It’s the teacher’s fault. Your team lost in Hockey? It must be the referees fault.”

“What’s your point?” I snap.

“What’s my point? You don’t see it?”

“See what?” I ask.

Paisley shakes her head. “You’re hungry, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you expect us to catch your fish?” “No.”

“When it rains, when it’s cold, when it’s too hot or sunny, do you expect us to build you a shelter?”

“No.”

“Oh, but you do.” Red patches appear on Paisley’s face. “We’ve seen you, Riley. We’ve watched you. You’ve whined and complained for months now.”

I couldn’t help but feel the knots twist in my chest, almost tugging at the veins and arteries. My heart wanted to explode. “What is this?” I punched the sand. “Why are you guys so mean to me?” My anger quickly shifted to pain. “I just want to play hockey. I want to go home. I want to have fun again. I want my mom!” Afternoon

Paisley sits with me in the shade near the fallen fig tree at the edge of the woods. It’s been my sanctuary as of late. I can’t be near the jet. I just can’t.

“Why are you helping me?” I ask. “If you hate me so much, why do you care?”

“Since I’ve been on this island I have learned to never give up on someone.” Paisley draws a square with a triangle on top. “You said you wanted to go home earlier, yes?”

I nod.

“Me too. But I’m so thankful for my time here.”

“Thankful?” I almost choke on my own spit. “How? There’s no wifi, no running water, no electricity, netflix, phone, instagram, snapchat, friends—nothing. How can you be thankful?”

Paisley smiles and says, “I’m a new person. This island changed me, and when I get off, I’m going to see life in a whole new way.”

I snicker. “And how do you plan on getting off this dump?”

“Empathy,” Paisley replies. Late Afternoon

Ya ya—I could look at the time on this tablet, but why bother? What does time mean here anyway?

Paisley is still with me. I think it’s because of my leg. I cut it when I crashed here a couple months ago, and it’s been getting worse. Plus I think it’s sprained from my fall into that stupid hole. I’m pretty sure I logged these injuries somewhere on this thing.

Who knows? Anyway, I haven’t talked about it because I didn’t want to admit I was hurt.

But I’m hurt.

Yes.

Riley Pickering is hurt. Early Evening

Sometimes I forget I’m surrounded by water—a haunting, deep, massive abyss.

I haven’t spoken to Paisley for a couple hours now. I just listen to the waves, gliding up the shore and washing gently away. It’s possible I drifted to sleep for a bit.

I can’t help but think that one of these entries will be my last.

Will it be because I’ve been rescued or because I have died?

“Are you being nice to me because you think I can get you off the island in my jet?” I ask Paisley, finally. My throat is scratchy. “The thing won’t work, you know that right?”

She shakes her head. “You seriously think that is why I am here? Do you think I am that low? Did you not read your console before your jet went down?”

“No,” I say.

“Do you not realize what is happening to you?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“You mean, you don’t know about the trial?” Drip, drip.

Tiny splatters of rain peck at my face. The clouds overhead roll past the lowering sun. “What trial?” I ask Paisley.

She stands up and brushes the sand off her legs. “If you don’t know, I can’t sit here and explain it.”

“Why?”

She points up. “There’s another storm coming. We must get to the shelter.” Paisley reaches for my hand and helps me to my feet. For a second—maybe two, I’m face to face with her—my nose just inches from hers—my mouth—her lips.

“Come on,” she says. A half smile stretches across her cheeks.

“What’s with all of these storms?”

Paisley pulls me into the woods. “Ask EOTS.” Fifteen minutes or so later.

We make it back to the other side of the island—painfully. The rain is pounding through the labyrinth of palms and twisted thicket—the world around—the noise of the brewing storm is deafening. The pain in my leg—the pain throughout my body has escaped.

“Will you help me fix the plane?” I say to her as we shuffle down an embankment. “What?”

She can’t hear me, but I have to get this off my chest. I’m aware now that I’m going to die if I don’t get off this island. “Can you help me fix the plane? Just you and me.”

Near the fire pit, Duschan is organizing baskets of food and water. He is transporting them down the bank to the shelter. His shirt is off— there are bruises and scars up and down his arms and side. Was that from me?

Trees snap in two along the steep slope behind him. The sand and soil give way engulfing him like a great white shark.

In a split second Duschan is gone. Buried.

Perhaps, dead.