Chapter 3

Days bled into one another. The first thing I did was get the zip ties off. I found a sharp-edged shell on the beach and sawed at the plastic for hours, my back screaming, my wrists raw and bleeding by the time they finally snapped.

Freedom of movement was small comfort. I was starving. Thirsty. The satellite phone Tara had left was a useless brick. I threw it into the ocean, watching it sink without a ripple.

I spent my days searching for anything edible. I found a few bitter berries that made my stomach cramp and some brackish water from a stagnant pond that tasted of mud and decay.

The nights were worse. The island was crawling with things that slithered and snapped. I learned to sleep in trees, wedged uncomfortably between branches, waking at every rustle in the leaves below.

One afternoon, seeking shelter from a sudden downpour, I stumbled upon a dilapidated shack hidden in a thicket of trees. The door hung off one hinge. Inside, the air was stale and smelled of death.

And then I saw why.

There was a skeleton in the corner, slumped against the wall, clothed in the tattered remains of what looked like a hunter' s outfit.

My stomach turned. I backed away, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was my future. This was what Nicole and Caleb and Tara had planned for me.

My eyes scanned the wall above the skeleton. Something was carved into the wood. I moved closer, my fear battling with a grim curiosity.

"Mom, Dad, I love you. Forgive me."

The words were rough, desperate. A final message from another soul abandoned in this hell. I sank to the floor, the reality of my situation crashing down on me with the force of a physical blow. I wasn't just stranded. I was meant to die here.

But next to the skeleton, I saw it. A small, rust-covered multi-tool, fallen from its belt pouch.

I picked it up. It felt heavy in my hand, solid. It had a small knife, pliers, a screwdriver. It was a chance.

A flicker of something other than despair sparked inside me. Anger. A cold, hard resolve. I would not end up like him. I would not be another forgotten skeleton.

I used the knife to sharpen a stick into a crude spear. I used the pliers to pull thorns from my feet. That multi-tool became my lifeline. I learned to pry open oysters from the rocks at low tide, their slimy, salty flesh the best meal I' d had in weeks. I figured out how to make a small, makeshift shelter against the wall of the shack, using palm fronds and branches.

I was surviving. But I was changing. The naive college kid was being stripped away, layer by painful layer. In his place was something harder, something feral.

One morning, about three weeks in, I heard the sound of a boat engine. Hope, a feeling I thought was long dead, surged through me. I scrambled out of my shelter and ran towards the beach, waving my arms, screaming until my throat was raw.

The boat was small, and a single figure stood on the deck.

Tara.

She didn't get off. She just watched me from a distance, a smirk on her face. Then, one of the two men with her lifted a large, canvas sack and emptied its contents into the water near the shore.

Snakes.

They were dumping snakes into the water. Cottonmouths. I recognized their thick bodies and dark patterns immediately. They were trying to kill me. This wasn't just abandonment anymore. It was attempted murder.

The boat turned and sped away, leaving me on the beach with a new, venomous threat.

That night, huddled in my shelter, I heard them slithering outside. The sound was a constant, terrifying reminder of how much they hated me.

I knew then that I was probably going to die. Hope was a fool's game.

I took the knife from the multi-tool and went back into the shack. I found a space on the wall next to the other man' s final words. My hand shook, but my resolve was iron. I began to carve my own message.

It wasn't a plea for forgiveness. It wasn't a message of love.

It was a curse.

"Nicole Gordon, I curse you."