Marooned Ballet Dancers

PROLOGUE

BONE-CHILLING.

That’s the only word to describe the cold rain that continues to fall, day after day, as if a cloud has formed atop us and refuses to leave. It is almost as if the whole world is against us, and the universe is trying to see just how much we can handle.

Aggie said we have been here for forty-two days.

Forty-two.

A fucking nightmare, if you ask me.

Somehow in that time, we have lost someone, nearly lost another, and a truth has been uncovered that has driven a wedge between us all. Nobody is safe—not from the secrets, or the lies, or the damn horror that we continue waking up to daily.

At night, I lie awake, counting the drops that fall from the leaf fronds above, each one a stark reminder that we are still here, still breathing, even when it hurts.

The world smells of wet ash from the fire we continue to try and light, and when the wind cuts in our direction, it’s sharp enough to make your bones ache.

Cold was never something I worried about.

I spent years in the world’s most expensive schools, ferrying between home and practice in cars that ran constant heat.

Now, forty-two days in, I dream about that warmth, I ache for the sun on my skin.

The constant rain has made all the timber wet, and even though we stashed some away, it is dwindling.

The guys set up camp a few hundred metres away from us.

They tried, of course they did. Ace wanted to fix it, to make it better, but the betrayal cut deep.

So fucking deep I still won’t have a conversation with him, but when I do, it’s simple answers.

Aggie and Tati spend their time back and forth, trying to mend what’s broken.

Rachel tells us she refuses any involvement and just wants to survive.

I agree with her.

So, most days we spend searching for ways to survive.

Hunting for fruit and animals, scraping at mussels on the sharpest rocks, foraging for anything that won’t kill us.

Every week, our food supply gets smaller.

The fish don’t seem to like the rain, and catching them has become increasingly difficult.

Occasionally, we find a crab and fight over it like wild animals, but mostly, it’s just air and water and whatever the island decides to give us.

As if it is in charge of us living or dying.

Hell, maybe it is.

Adrian is the worst off, and his spark slowly dwindles.

The wound doesn’t heal the way it should, and he’s in pain more often than not.

We do our best, cleaning it obsessively, but there’s only so much you can do with salt water and hope.

He spends hours awake, staring at the horizon, sometimes muttering.

At night, he cries out in pain, and we hear it, all of us, but none of us move to help.

What can we do? At first, he tried to hide it. Now, he doesn’t bother.

The pain brings out a kind of honesty in him.

Sometimes I wish it would do the same for me.

But I wake, I eat, I sleep, and I pretend that every day isn’t a new kind of loss.

There is something about this island that finds the cracks in you and works a stick into them, prying and prying until you’re nothing but splinters.

The other night, the wind was so bad it nearly took the shelter apart piece by piece.

The palm fronds we’d layered for insulation ripped off, and the next morning we had to start all over, hands numb and faces stung raw.

It would’ve been easier to give up, honestly.

But we have no choice, we have to keep fighting.

I try not to think about my father. The man who paid to have me delivered to a fate so dark I still can’t bear to think about it. If Dad stood here now, cold and blue-lipped, I think I’d forgive him. Not because he deserves it, but because I am so, so tired of the ache in my chest.

I just want it all to be over.

Tonight, once again, we gather in the shelter, all of us except the guys. The rain comes down hard, so hard we can’t even see the flicker of the firelight at the guys’ camp. Aggie spots me shivering and tucks me into the crook of her arm, and for a second, it’s not so bad.

“We have to try for the cliffs again tomorrow,” she says, voice brittle but firm. “There might be gulls’ nests up there. Eggs, maybe.”

Tati groans. “I almost died last time.”

“You didn’t, though,” Aggie shoots back, with a grin.

Rachel doesn’t say anything. She just watches the fire, eyes reflecting the flames. I lean into Aggie and stare at the wobbly line where sand meets dark. I still can’t imagine rescue, not really. The idea seems as far away as the moon.

“I heard Adrian screaming again last night,” Tati whispers, so quietly I almost miss it. “I think it’s getting worse. Maybe not the wound but... his mental health.”

We sit in silence.

What is there to say?

There is nothing we can do.

I watch the fire die down to angry coals, and I think about the first few days here, and how we were so determined to survive. I wonder if that’s still true, if I even own myself anymore, or if the island does, or the cold, or the memory of Ace’s hands.

Fucking Ace.

My heart aches every single time I think of him.

I refuse to cry.

I won’t give him that.

I take a deep breath in, and let myself sag against Aggie. The promise to myself is the same as always: I will not belong to anyone. Not the cold, not the dark, not the guys, and not to this damn island.

And tomorrow, even if the cliffs kill me, I’ll climb them.