Concepts like death never worried Ryan. It all started around his time in high school. He sat behind the store with two people he forgot the names of. He remembered one was taller than him, and the other one was fat.
They stood around smoking cigarettes, back in a time when you could walk into the gas station with a five-dollar bill, and come out with change.
Ryan's father never knew he skipped to hang around some goons in town. Maybe if he did, Ryan would have become a better man. A better support for his brother.
Ryan stood there, finishing the rest of his cigarette. The fat man began a conversation with something that sparked Ryan's interest.
"I got something for yah to smoke kid."
Ryan looked down toward the man's greasy hand. In it stood a normal-looking cigarette. The white paper wrapping had bumps that were fatter than usual but it hadn't seemed off.
Ryan took it from his hand and took out a blue lighter that he had stolen from his pocket. Cupping it into his palm, he lit it off and inhaled.
It was rough for one second. He almost dropped it from his lips but he continued to inhale. The next inhale was numbing.
He lifted it from his dried lips and handed it to back the fat man. His hands began to shake slightly. Ryan slouched and stared down in the direction of the fat man's feet. His boot was worn down to simple black rubber. One lace stood uneven, as everything around it became unfocused.
"You really just let that kid have a hit of your lucky?"
The fat man shifted, hitting the remaining juices from the stick.
"I came across a score the other day! Anyways it's going to be funny to see what the kid does."
When he laughed his mouth drooped and his rolls of fat jiggled beneath his starchy neck. Ryan began to turn his head toward the behemoth of a man.
"Wha-wha-wa"
The two men grabbed their chests and began to laugh. The fat one coughed into his inner arm, keeping eye contact with Ryan. Ryan tried to focus his vision back toward him, but every attempt failed.
"Spit it out kid! Watcha trying to say there kid?"
Ryan stepped back and grabbed into his own chest. His heart was racing, beating out of control. His ribs burned from the remaining smoke stuck in his lungs. His fingers kept shaking, now way worse than before.
His vision no longer wandered but pulsated at the foot of the large man. The boot was no longer black, but red and fuzzy.
Campfire crackles popped within his eardrums. He began to fall, then appeared on the ground. He stared up at what were two men's outlines. The cold concrete shot up his hands. The two outlines ran as his vision went black, fading with static and red dots.
Soon enough, he awoke in a field. Or at least he thought he passed out.
The green grass led to a park. A jungle gym where Ryan could sit and hide. The people were everywhere. They stared at him. No matter how much he covered his face they saw him melt.
The thuds from within the bowling alley echoed out toward the back. His head throbbed as his vision spread out for the last time. He thrusted himself into a brick wall and vomited harshly.
He kneeled to the ground and was relieved to become somewhat stable. His clothes were ripped and his nose had caused dry blood to stain his palms.
Ryan had come around completely a few hours later when the sun had set and the street lights pointed him home. About four miles from the bowling alley. Five from the gas station he had smoked the spiked cigarette.
As he walked home through the streets of a small-town, Ryan came to a smile somehow. He whispered to himself with a slight grin.
"If you wanted me dead, that would have been the time to do it. Hey, God?"
The raft was cozy for Ryan. The sun had fully fallen and the dark sky soothed his eyes. He leaned his head straight toward the horizon and crossed his blistered fingers over his chest.
The tide created rhythmic noises in the background of Ryan's thoughts. His dry, rough face was placed over the rubber raft.
The island was too still. No birds, no fish, no threats to Ryan. His hunger had become concerning to him. He had thoughts pass his mind of skinning a tree of its bark and chewing it like gum. Yet, he laid too tired to continue to ponder.
Ryan fell asleep after turning and shifting for several hours, whether it was out of exhaustion or stubbornness, it was short-lived. Only after what felt like a few minutes of keeping his eyes shut, Ryan was forcefully awakened by a bright light outside his eyelids. He lifted his crispy hand to cover them as he slowly opened his eyes.
The sun beamed above him. Ryan sat up, angered, confused, and exhausted. The sun shined above him like it was noon.
Ryan looked out over the raft to be met with the dark ocean. It hadn't reflected any light, if anything it swallowed it whole. Ryan lifted his body up and over the raft to have an itch crawling upon his skin.
He wandered toward the water, leaving his toes between the shore line where the water met land. The sand was cold on his feet.
As Ryan inspected the horizon, he decided on impulse to wash his face and sunburns.
He cupped his hands as the next wave rolled right into them. He splashed it over his chest. The cold water caused some of the hair on his body to stick up. He waited for the next wave to roll into his palms.
His face was craving cold water. Something to wash his nose and rehydrate his lips.
The wave rolled into his hands and Ryan splashed it straight into his face. As his hands fell back the water had stuck his eyelashes. He rested his wrists over his knees as the muddy sand sunk and ate his legs.
He looked out past the horizon again to see the dark water loom for hundreds of miles.
Ryan shifted into a more comfortable position, one knee into the sand with the other leg holding up his weight. His face began to feel dry, almost burning. As he shifted, he glanced down at his hands. They were completely black.
He noticed it was all over his hands and wrists. Pitch black ink had soaked into the small crevices of his hands. He slowly stood up in confusion as the black ink dripped from his hands.
He took his clean forearms and wiped at his face and eyes. Ink smudged all over his forearms. He looked back toward the ocean as it waved and rolled, completely pitch black. Ryan scratched at his face as the ink stained under his dirty fingernails.
"What the fuck?"
He wandered back to his raft. He rolled over onto the moist rubber, groaning and itching at his face. Ryan's lips went back to their dry state, causing a craving for ice-cold water. As Ryan laid on his back and stared into the sky, he noticed the feeling of the temperature.
The sun was as bright and beaming as hard as the day before. Yet, he wasn't being burnt and the rubber on the raft wasn't on fire. It was cool and there was even a breeze going between the sand grains stuck to Ryan's legs. But there were no clouds in the sky, not a single one, to explain the cold.
"Why complain."
It was strange. Not seeing a single bird in the sky to occupy this empty island. Ryan wanted something to be watching him. Or maybe he didn't, either way, this suffering of his wasn't being witnessed or recorded. Nobody was here to give him petty compliments. Not even a bird, was here to give him comfort.
Ryan raised his head over the edge of the raft, once again hoping for something to change. To his surprise, the water that once was in the distance had crept farther up the shore.
The waves beyond the island were crashing harder and harder as the pitch-black saltwater turned the sand into mush. Ryan felt the cool breeze begin to pick up as it hit his bald head. His eyes began to tear up from the sudden impact of the cold air.
Ryan, out of concern for the only thing keeping him between himself and the island, got out to drag the raft more inland. He grabbed the rope with his ink smeared hands and began to pull. It wasn't easy to pull the heavy raft. Ryan nudged it in little spurts of energy. At last, the raft was in the green grass, far away from the strange ocean of ink.
Ryan took the time to observe his surroundings. He looked toward the palm trees not far from him. The trees towered over the floating rock. They didn't seem to carry any nuts or fruit. The long, lengthy leaves bloomed from the trees' cores like sunflowers in the summer. They didn't cast shadows onto the grass, leaving an unsettling void in the area they stood.
Beyond the tree line, Ryan could catch glimpse of what seemed to be a hill. It was probably a mile or so away from his current position. It rolled away to a place that was way past Ryan's sight.
He squinted his eyes and glanced back toward the shore. The ocean looked like it had come another foot inland. But Ryan wasn't sure by this point.
He sat the raft down completely and laid back into it. He wasn't hungry, his stomach made no roars or gurgles. His lips stayed dry but they had become tolerable, a lot like his sunburns and his scabs. He dozed off, staring up toward an endless, grey sky once again.
Ryan didn't have any visions or dreams that night, just echoes of fading piano chords clinging in the distance.
Ryan awoke to a shifting sensation in his gut. In a panic, he rolled his head over the raft and began hurling off the edge. He was utterly exhausted. He didn't even open his crusty eyes as his gut-punched itself over and over again. The raft was rolling on its own. Ryan began to open his left eye, then his right.
His vision was blurry at first but soon his senses came to full. The vomit was floating in about an inch of water. The raft was being tickled by the rolling waves.
"Had I gotten moved back to the beach?"
Ryan looked back toward the ocean to see the beach was completely gone. The tide had engulfed it. To his side, Ryan could see the tree from the night before was still standing tall. He hadn't moved an inch since he fell asleep. The ocean was moving inland.
Ryan hopped his way out of the raft, splashing black ink around his ankles and up his calves. The water was surprisingly cold to the touch. He grabbed the raft and began to drag it past the tree to the dry grass. It felt as if the tide was following him, giving him a head start like a cocky kid in a game of tag.
The raft was light and easy to drag. Ryan knew in the back of his mind he couldn't stay here on what was left on the beach. He needed to move inland. He stretched his legs then began his stroll.
His bare feet enjoyed the cool grass compared to the oven hot sand. He kept his eye out on the ground for any sort of food, maybe a cellphone, or even an airplane awaiting his arrival to bring him home.
This was the first time Ryan thought about the harsh reality.
"How was I supposed to get off the island?" A lingering thought he had put off.
He began thinking really hard about the subject.
"Helicopter? Jet skis? Ridding a sea turtle?" His head hurt when thinking about it.
Ryan decided to end the thought quickly by sprinting. Soon enough, he was at the foot of the hill he saw from the coast. He began having a struggle pulling the raft. The incline made it harder as the grassy frontier turned into a muddy, rocky barrier. Inch by inch, the raft was carefully pulled up the hill.
Ryan pulled until he got to a flat-grounded part of the hill. He inspected the rest of the journey when he realized he didn't even know what was on the other side.
"Was this even worth it? What if it's just more ocean?"
Ryan made a hasty decision. He secured the raft on the flat ground, shaking it to make sure it wouldn't fly away if the wind were to pick up. He turned away from the raft and made his way up the rest of the hill.
The climb was, as he thought, much easier without the raft. It was nice to have a break from tugging and pulling with his hurt hands and shoulders.
Step by step he approached the edge of the hill. He began to see overtop the barricade in his way. A rocky hill appeared to be below Ryan. Boulders and red clay littered the bottom of the hill.
Once at the top, Ryan took in the view. A valley void of green. A field of rocks and boulders made of colored clay. A complete change from the beach he had just stayed the past nights on.
In the horizon was a small green area. There were a ton palm trees and grass. There was also a small, blue glimmer of water.
"In the middle of the island, that has to be fresh water? Fresh water and trees. That means animals or fruit or even mushrooms to eat. I can survive there. I have to make my way there!"
Ryan got excited. His legs even began to shake a tad bit. The realization that he was going to survive had plagued his mind. Though the joy hadn't lasted. Soon, dread consumed Ryan's body. His head got hot as he looked down the hill he had just climbed.
At the foot of the hill was the pitch-black abyss. It waved and crashed against the mud he had just climbed mere minutes ago. There was no more beach. Not even the tree that had kept him comfortable the night before stood. The bright raft was nowhere in sight either. It was gone, all of it.
Ryan's ears began to ring as dreadful thoughts in his head played out countless times. These thoughts were the only sound to cloud the crashing water. These words were the following.
"I should have died behind that bowling alley."