Page 61 of Hate Wrecked

The toolbox is full of old items, including some from the boat that I collected.

I know there is a multi-tool in there. Hopefully, the pliers will have wire cutters.

I take a seat on the sand, assessing my leg. It doesn’t hurt much, but it’s about to hurt a lot.

Riley returns with the toolbox, and her face is white.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She nods, coming to me. “I just feel a little…sick.”

“It’s not going to be that bad,” I assure her, taking the toolbox. I find the tool I need and open it, tossing the pouch into the box as I look at Riley, standing over me, wringing her hands.

“Come sit down here,” I tell her. She does, like a robot, her eyes never leaving the tool in my hand, not looking at my shin.

“I’m going to cut the end of the lure. Then I’m going to push it through,” I start.

“Push it through your skin?” Riley asks, voice high-pitched.

“Yeah. It’s a fishing lure. It can’t come back out the way it went in. It has to go through.”

“Fuck this,” Riley says, looking into the sky. She doesn’t move, though.

“It’ll be fine. I’ve done it before.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Yeah. It happens when you fish.”

“Oh God,” Riley says, covering her mouth. “Okay. What do I do?”

“Nothing, I just want you to watch, in case you ever need to do this.”

“I’m never doing this.”

“So, if you got stuck with a fishing lure, you would just live with it in your body for the rest of your life?” I raise an eyebrow.

“No,” Riley argues, “if I got stuck with a fishing lure, you would get it out. And when we get off this island, I’m never fishing again.”

I laugh, believing her. “Okay. Fine. But watch.”

She gets into a more comfortable position, her eyes watering. “Okay.”

I open and close the tool, making sure the wire cutters connect. Then I take them to my shin and cut off the back of the lure. Riley watches, blinking rapidly, hands clenched. “It’s not that bad,” I laugh.

“I can feel it, though,” Riley murmurs. And I believe her. She was always so empathetic, a sponge for everything in her home. It was beautiful but also hard on her.

“You ready?” I ask, looking up into Riley’s eyes. It takes her a minute to connect with mine. She nods.

It hurts like a fucking bitch, pushing the lure through my skin. But I do it, teeth clenched, eyes steady.

I hear Riley whisper a curse, and then it’s through, the sharp point on the other side. I quickly pull it out of my skin, and then the blood flows. Riley reaches forward, maybe on instinct, and clamps her palms down on my leg. I reach behind myself for the bag of supplies we keep on the shore for our fishing trips. There are scraps of fabric there. I grab two. When I turn back, Riley takes one piece of fabric and replaces her hand, wiping up the blood and cleaning my wound. When she’s finished, she takes the other piece and wraps it tightly around my leg, securing it.

“Thank you,” I say, satisfied with the stretch of her knot.

“No problem,” she says before walking to the shore, kneeling down to wash away my blood.

I stand, testing the leg. It doesn’t hurt much, but it might later. It’s a minor wound, and I hope that’s all we face out there. Small wounds to our flesh, balancing the gaping wounds to our hearts and souls as the days and weeks pass.

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