BAD SAINT (All the Pretty Things #1)

Twelve-1

I’m lost to the silence…

Day 19WHEN ABSOLUTE SILENCE envelops you, you realize just how quickly we adjust to the constant noise that clutters our lives. Most say they want to get away from the hustle; that they want to spend a week on a deserted island and forget the world exists. Well, I’ve been there, done that, and let me tell you, the silence is overrated.

For three days, I’ve been lost in the silence, and I have never felt lonelier than I do right now.

Saint has faded in and out of consciousness. He doesn’t talk or open his eyes. Sometimes, he mumbles incoherently, but most times, he screams in his sleep. I have tried everything to wake him up, but it’s no use.

He needs a doctor because his condition seems to be getting worse. But that isn’t an option, so all I can do is keep him comfortable and hydrated. I’m beyond exhausted because when I’m not constructing an SOS signal on the beach, I’ve been watching him like a hawk. I’m too scared to close my eyes in fear of when I open them, Saint may have succumbed to whatever illness plagues him.

This has nothing to do with the knock on his head. That may have contributed to his weakened state, but something else is at work here. I just don’t know what.

The thought of doing this alone terrifies me, but I can’t deny that the thought of losing Saint scares me more. He wouldn’t be in this position if he hadn’t been out to rescue Harriet Pot Pie, which I still don’t understand why he did so.

He’s a walking conundrum.

I still want to know so much more about him, but as I touch his forehead and it comes away wet with fever, I know that may never happen. I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand. I’m defeated—in every sense of the word.

The storm has thankfully passed. It was brutal. I have ventured out, and the terrain barely looks recognizable. I’ve had to mark a new path with shreds of old clothing as everything has washed away.

Beginning my day the same as I have these past three days, I shoulder Saint’s backpack in order to collect more twigs and rocks to finish the SOS. It’s the only hope we have of getting off this island.

Harriet Pot Pie is grazing outside. She never leaves. It seems she too realizes the sacrifice Saint made to save her life. I bid her farewell and make my way down the hill.

The sun shines brightly without a cloud in the sky. Once I’m done with the SOS, I’ll pick some coconuts and hunt for food. The water Saint collected thanks to the heavy downpour is still in excess, but after a few days of sitting around, it’s beginning to taste a little stale.

I’m so sick of fish. I’m hoping I’ll strike it lucky and find a crab or something else. I’ve steered clear of the waters near the lagoon in fear the shark will return and finish what he started. Without Saint, I feel vulnerable, which is ironic in every sense of the word.

I work on the SOS until my arms and legs ache. I’m almost finished with the O. I’m determined to have it completed by tomorrow. I try digging in the sand for crabs, but I come up empty and have no choice but to fish.

It takes me a little while, but I’m able to spear a couple of fish. Once I’ve collected a few coconuts that have fallen from the tree, I stagger back toward the cave. I have no idea of the time, but the sun is dipping, so I know it’s almost dusk. Time passes me by on a loop because this has been my routine for the past three days. It’s Groundhog Day, and I want out. But this is my life now, and I don’t know how long for.

Feeling more than sorry for myself, I drag my feet, eyes peeled to the ground. When something green and bushy comes into view, I do a double take, and a winded gasp leaves me.

“It’s molokhia. It’s rich in anti-inflammatory properties and speeds up the healing process.”

The first bubble of hope I’ve had in three days rises, and I can’t drop to my knees fast enough as I yank out more handfuls of the stuff. I already have some from when Saint picked it before the storm, but I want to ensure I have enough. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner. Stuffing it into the backpack, I run through the thick terrain and up the hill.

My sides hurt, and I’m panting by the time I run into the cave and squat by Saint’s sleeping form. I hope by some miracle his fever has broken, but when I touch his cheeks and forehead, I pull my hand away.

He’s even hotter, and his skin is slick with sweat.

“No,” I cry, quickly slipping my arms through the straps of the backpack.

His T-shirt is wet with perspiration, so without thought, I sit him up and take it off. His body is lax, which just adds to my nerves. As carefully as I can, I lay him back down and run over to his change of clothes. I grab a new shirt and the first-aid kit.

When I return, I drop to my knees, ignoring the shake to my hands as I open the kit. I will try the Tylenol again, and maybe this time, I’ll add some of the molokhia with the water. As I’m about to dress him, my attention falls to the tattered gauze pad over his stab wound.

I had completely forgotten about his injury. When I asked him how it was, and he replied with fine, I just assumed it was. I didn’t press because it was clear he didn’t need me tending to his wounds anymore. But a light bulb suddenly appears out of nowhere. All this time, I assumed Saint had a virus or maybe even something similar to Dengue Fever thanks to all the mosquitos buzzing around us, but I’ll bet my left arm he has an infection, thanks to this wound. I suddenly remember him flinching when he moved, like he was in pain.

I gently peel back the gauze inch by inch, and what I see has me gasping. The jagged cut I sewed together is red and raw. It’s also inflamed and smells horrible. Peering up at Saint, I gently prod the area and watch for any signs. When he flinches and groans sluggishly, I know this is the reason he’s been so sick.

He has a nasty infection. The pus oozing from the wound only confirms that fact.

I am livid at myself for not putting two and two together. But I can berate myself later because now, I have to tend to Saint’s injury. I work on autopilot, boiling some water and preparing everything I need.

I sterilize the area with the boiling water, washing the weeping mess. I then use the antiseptic wipes to ensure the wound is as germ-free as I can get it. Hoping I’m right, I place some of the molokhia leaves in the boiling water and place them over the cut.

Saint did say they helped speed up the healing process. I don’t know if he meant ingesting them or applying them directly to the source, so I’m going to do both. Once the wound is lathered with the juices of the molokhia, I dry it gently, place some ointment on there and then apply a fresh bandage.

I don’t know if any of this will help, but I’ll try anything.

I really wish I could force more than a trickle of water down his throat because the Tylenol would help. But the boiled molokhia juice will do just fine.

Placing Saint’s head against my thigh, I blow on the concoction, ensuring it’s not too hot. When it’s cool enough, I gently cradle his head, lifting it slightly and pressing the coconut shell with the juice to his lips. I feed it to him in small doses. Most of it runs down his lips, but surely, he’s swallowed some.

Not wanting to go too fast, too soon, I position myself so I can lean against the wall and still have his head on my lap. His chest rises and falls lethargically, but when I place my hand over his heart, I sigh in relief because it beats strong.

I didn’t think to ask him how his wound was or even offer to dress it because Saint is so…Saint. He is so strong and independent, and I never thought about him getting sick or being vulnerable, but being stuck here, I’ve now seen both.

Instantly, the urge to comfort him overcomes me, and I run my fingers through his hair. He would never allow me to touch him this way if the circumstances were different. Or would he?

My exhausted mind demands sleep, so I close my eyes for a few seconds and welcome the quietness once more.

“Zoey…”

My eyes snap open as my groggy mind takes a second to adjust to where I am. I’m still stuck on this island.

Peering down, I see that Saint’s head still rests on my lap. I touch his forehead, and even though he’s still hot, he’s not burning up. A small bubble of hope rises. Maybe he’ll pull through.

I have no idea of the time and being cooped up in this dark cave doesn’t help. I decide to try to feed Saint more of the molokhia concoction as I’m hoping this has helped with his fever. Without moving him from my lap, I reach for the remaining juice in the coconut shell and swish it around. Drawing the shell to his lips, I gently prop his floppy head forward.

“Saint, you need to drink this.” I can only hope he can hear me. Most trickles down his chin but when I see the slow swallow of his throat, I cry in relief. “That’s it. Drink.” I don’t want to force too much down, so once he’s had a few small mouthfuls, I pull the shell away.

He sighs and nestles against my leg.

“Can you hear me?” I ask gently, brushing the hair back from his face. He looks so weak and vulnerable.

His shallow breaths are a welcomed sound because a few days ago, I didn’t even know if I’d hear them again.

“Zoey?” he mumbles; his eyes are still squeezed shut.

“No, it’s me. Willow,” I whisper, continuing to stroke his hair.

“I’m sorry I didn’t protect you,” he says sluggishly.

“Shh, it’s okay.” I don’t want him thinking like that. I just want him to focus on getting better.

“I should have come sooner. I’m sorry, Zoey.”

My stomach drops because he thinks he’s talking to Zoey and not me. I can’t hide my disappointment, but I disregard it quickly.

“But I’ll fix it,” he slurs while I hold my breath. What is he about to confess? “I’m going to make it right, and then you can come back home, and everything will go back to normal.”

Fix what?

“I’ve got what Popov wants.”

My stomach drops. Is he, is he talking about me?

Saint has succumbed to sleep, but I’m wide-awake, stunned by his admission. I don’t want to believe I’m involved in Saint’s plans, but deep down, I know that I am. My attention drifts to his journal. The answers I seek are no doubt buried within those pages, but the question is, when I uncover what he has planned for me, will I turn into him? A murderer? Because if I’m proven wrong, and he is the bad guy, then I have no other choice but to fight.

It’s survival of the fittest, and right now, Saint’s survival depends on me.

Sighing, I lean my head back against the rocky wall and close my eyes. He is my foe, so why do I keep treating him like my friend?

Day 21THREE WEEKS HAVE passed since I was kidnapped. How my life has changed since that day. I’m beginning to forget the small comforts like TV, toilet paper, and running water because being out here in the wilderness is slowly becoming my norm.

Saint seems to be getting better, but his constant cries for Zoey cement that once he wakes, we will go back to the way things were. His journal still lays untouched because I’m frightened to know what’s inside.

I don’t want to believe that he’s the monster he claims to be because if it’s so, what does that say about me? I allowed him to touch me, and I…liked it. And even now, I know nursing him back to health will ultimately lead to my demise. But I can’t let him die.

I know that makes me a fool, but I couldn’t live with myself if I took someone else’s life. My subconscious never fails to remind me that Saint has no issues whatsoever doing so.

Shaking my head, I continue gathering coconuts because after working all day, I’m tired and hungry.

The SOS is finished. I was expecting to feel some sense of accomplishment, but the moment I laid the last stone, it hit home that for the past eleven days, I haven’t seen a single soul. No passing planes or ships. It’s like we were forgotten.