Part 3: Last WordsLeft to Die on the Island

Yvonne looked at Rachel. "Has he been calling you lately?"

Rachel blinked and snickered. "Curses me every day. Hasn't he called you?"

Yvonne tapped her phone's sides and called me, but her phone only beeped.

Rachel smiled and poured Yvonne a glass of liquor. "Blocked you, has he? Bet he's mad. Maybe you should keep him there longer."

Yvonne's face fell, and she drained the glass.

"Honestly, a brute like him? Harold's gentler and more understanding. How about you cancel the marriage? You don't have to put up with his attitude."

Harold was right beside, and his face was red from drinking too much, but he looked at Yvonne with anticipation.

She frowned at her phone and got up, nodding at Rachel. "You guys have fun. I have work to do, so see you later."

…

He stared at the leaving Yvonne forlornly, downing another drink. "Maybe I should fight Christian for her, but I love her too much."

"Don't cry, Harold. You'll have her sooner or later." Heartbroken, Rachel hugged Harold's arm and gave him some comfort, and she directed her hatred at me. She took her phone out and ordered coldly, "Send some fun stuff to that island."

She looked in the direction of that island with malice.

…

It was my tenth day on the island.

I was rolling with a crocodile, and my body was covered in wounds, but I scrambled up its belly with the multipurpose knife. I dragged my wounded leg as I handled the ingredients, then I bit into a piece of charred crocodile meat. I retched.

I soon heard voices, so I wore the shabby clothes made out of leaves and charged as far as I could before slowly moving backward.

The boats that came had left in a hurry, while the scales of the pythons they left behind were gleaming under the sun, and the snakes were slithering toward me. I was forced into the cave and stayed with the corpse.

I bit my arm as hard as I could to encourage myself, then I muttered at the corpse, "At least you have someone to leave your last words to. My father adopted the son of his first love, and he doesn't like me. My fiancee doesn't like me either, and she wants to kill me. I can stay with you. At least we'll have company on our path to the afterlife."

I sat beside the corpse, shivering, and I stared at the words on the wall.

Then, I held up the knife before the wall, wondering what I should write. Nothing came up.

When the corpse's stench was starting to fill my nostrils and making me nauseous, I carved these words: "I hate you, Yvonne Johnson."

Those were my last words. I walked away and lay on the ground, starving and staring into the ceiling of the cave.

…

Then, my eyes stung, and I closed my eyes. "Can you pick me up, Mom? You haven't been visiting me in my dreams."

As I thought about my mother, I fell sound asleep for once. My mother remained young and not tormented by cancer. She wasn't gaunt, and she held me gently. I was my younger self, and I shrank in her embrace before she handed me to someone else.

It used to be my father, then it changed to Yvonne. This time, it was a different face.

…

Meanwhile, Yvonne checked her empty chat history and bit her lip. She called Rachel. "Make the arrangements. I'm going to the island."

Rachel fell silent for a while, then spoke in a cavalier way.