I came to on what had become my desert island
. I had my head in my hands, with an empty can of kerosene
and a half-used box of matches to my left.
There was a bag to my right. It was full of parts of myself I'd had forcibly removed and tried to forget. Directly next to the bag were a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a bottle of whiskey and a sewing kit.
I was covered in bruises. I was full of bitter memories. I could feel every fuck you I'd ever lodged; every word of good advice I'd ever ignored; every word of encouragement that had ever been cancelled out by doubt.
I could taste every risk I never took, every reckless act I'd ever performed, every sacrifice I never made that I should have, and every sacrifice I made that I didn't have to. Churning in my stomach I could feel every cowardly avoidance; every failed flight attempt; every dodged responsibility.
On my chest I could feel every horrible word I'd ever said, whether or not I meant it, and whether or not I knew how horrible it was. In my throat was a copy of every gaffe, double entendre, insult, worry, flippant dismissal, temper tantrum and tactless utterance that had ever crossed it.
In my blood was every last micron of damage I'd ever inflicted, whether or not intentional, on another living thing.
In a mailbox two paces away from the bag were letters: Some angry, some sad, some indifferent, some cruel, some heartbroken, and some mocking. Tens of people that had ever cared about me, liked me, loved me, supported me, encouraged me, admired me, assisted me, pulled strings for me, shared good times with me, conversed with me, shared their energy... all that I had left were letters, most unopened, because I'd either refused to open them or left no forwarding address.
But they've all been delivered.
I discovered that several ships have come and gone, and the next one's coming one piece at a time, for me to build myself. The instructions may or may not be forthcoming.
It's possible they've arrived and are in this pile of letters somewhere.