My name is Natalie Crocker. I’m twenty-four years old, I identify as female, and I’m an actress. Apparently, I’m quite famous, too, as the incessant flashing of these camera lights continues to assault my sense of sight. To be honest, I don’t really even remember what movie I’m promoting, since this is my seventh panel this year. Not that it would really matter. I can’t even hear myself think from this barrage of questions, let alone hear the individual queries to answer them.
Peons, struggling to matter in a world where nothing does, trying to get the quote that will make them famous and launch their career. I wouldn’t really mind if they just kept their questions relating to the films, but people seem bizarrely interested in my personal life.
Like, REALLY interested.
As if it was their business in any way, they seem to measure me more on the aspects of who I am, rather than the work that I’ve put out. My manager, Stacey Donovan, constantly assures me that this is just how the game is played: a little piece of my personality here and a big movie role there. It’s almost sickening how much popularity plays into success.
I can’t even go on social media anymore: I get bombarded with messages, either from fans or, more often, haters. As much as I appreciate everything, don’t they have better things to do than cling to my life for a sliver of a chance at glory?
I’ve always loved acting. Ever since I was a child, it’s all I’ve wanted to be. That is, until I hit it big with my breakout role in The Islander. Some indie filmmaker made a feature about a woman surviving on an island, like that one movie from twenty years ago. Apparently, walking around half-naked on screen for an hour is the most effective way to get noticed.
This has created an uproar of questions regarding feminism and equality. Questions that I don’t think I can really answer. Either side I take, half the people are going to be angry, and the other half are going to be happy, but both will twist my words to suit their own agendas.
It would be so much easier if I could get away from it all.
--
The new film is a period piece, being shot in Madrid. If there’s one thing that I do still enjoy about all the fame and fortune, it’s that I get to travel the world and visit interesting locales. I’m leaving in the morning, on a jet owned by the production company for their high-value stars.
As a result, I’m taking a nice, hot bubble bath to sooth my soul. The water enveloping me in a calm warmth. This is the one place that I can truly be alone.
Or… so I thought.
Stacey bursts into the room, apparently ignoring the fact that I’m not dressed and starts yammering about new movie deals, product tie ins, and anything that will get us more money.
“I came in here for some privacy,” I bark at her, barely containing my contempt.
“Darling,” she starts, “you’re a celebrity. Privacy isn’t exactly something you get to have any more.”
“Why not?” I retort. “Can’t I have some time where I don’t get mobbed by fans, assaulted by hateful comments, or asked questions that I couldn’t possibly answer? Can’t I have a moment’s peace?”
“No.”
I roll my eyes and sink underneath the water, immersing myself in its warmth. I can swear that Stacey is still talking, too, though I can’t understand her. My eyes are shut, trying to focus on enjoying my interrupted bliss.
It would be so much better if I just stayed here.
--
I feel as though a jackhammer has been running indefinitely in my skull. I have yet to open my eyes, but I already know that I’m not lying on my mattress, nor that of any hotel bed. In fact, what I’m laying on appears to be wet, shifting, and itchy beyond all reason. I clench the ground and feel it crumble beneath my grip. I feel a burst of freezing water wash over me, jolting me upright.
I’m lying on a beach.
Staring out towards the water, I see the vast blue liquid extend beyond the boundless horizon. Everywhere I look is blue, save for a single plume of smoke emanating in the distance.
I feel my head and wince. Glancing at my hand, I see a small speck of blood. From there, I can understand that I’ve been in an accident and somehow survived. What that accident was or how I survived, I can only guess.
The last thing I remember is hearing Stacey yelling on the phone as I stared out the plane window.
I check for my phone, to no avail. It’s dead, likely due to the water.
I look around.
The beach is vast. At least one hundred yards between the water and a thick patch of jungle, extending down the coast. I start walking up the sand and learn, very quickly, through the burning sensation in my feet, that I have been relieved of my shoes.
I see a large ridge and start to make my way there. The higher up I am, the farther I’ll be able to see and maybe there will be some civilized group that will be able to help me. The jungle floor is littered with twigs and rocks, making walking very difficult and painful, and climbing the ridge isn’t any easier. By the time I reach the top, my feet are bruised and scarred.
My theory was right. From here, I can see the whole island. It’s not very large, maybe a couple of miles wide or so. I can’t really tell… I’m an actor, not a geographer. Where I failed, though, is that there doesn’t seem to be any other person on this island.
I’m stranded… and isolated.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
My mind is filled with the calming sounds of a gentle breeze, coupled with the distant crashing of waves along the shore.
No paparazzi.
No mob of fans or haters.
No pressure.
Only privacy.
I smile, for the first time in… well, I don’t really even know when.
--
During my time filming The Islander, I took to reading a bunch of survival material online, particularly with surviving on an uninhabited island. It’s not necessarily method acting if it’s just research, but you do manage to learn a thing or two.
The first thing I know I’m going to need is water. You’d have to be an idiot to not know that the ocean is salt water and that drinking it is just a road to dehydration. I know that I don’t have long to find water, either, as the human body can only survive a few days without it.
I know that there are a few ways to gather water in such a situation. The first method is to gather some of the salt water and boil it so that the condensation collected can be drinkable. But that only really works with a fire and something to catch the condensation. As far as I can tell, nothing from the plane crash has washed up yet, so that method will have to wait.
I know that I can’t drink stagnant water, either, as I could catch a disease. So, I must find a flowing stream, for the time being.
It didn’t really take that long. I know that flowing water usually comes from the higher points, so I just browsed around the ridge for an hour or so. I managed to find a flowing stream. For a temporary water source, at least I’m refreshed.
--
Night is nearly here, and it’s already feeling colder than I’m used to. Time to get a fire started, the process of which is fairly simple: friction creates heat, heat creates flame, flame creates fire.
Rubbing two sticks together is the simplest way to do this. It takes a long time, so long that the sun has already set before I see the first ember of flame. What I wouldn’t do to get a set of matches right now. The ember slowly dissipates, and I’m left in the dark again.
I continue rubbing the sticks together into the night, which is not helped by my shivering. But as I press on, I am rewarded for my persistence with a healthy flame.
Soon, with a patch of grass and some dried sticks, I have a healthy sized fire. The flames dance in the darkness as I fall asleep.
--
In the weeks that followed, I’ve learned just how hard maintaining an existence can be. I found some fruit trees, which helped stave off starvation. Until I managed to build a spear to catch fish. Then, after cooking them over the fire, I was able to have a balanced meal.
Sometimes, bits and piece of the plane would wash up on shore. From them, I was able to make a rudimentary water distillery, so I wouldn’t have to rely on the stream. My bags also washed up, so I could be protected against the sun and my feet were saved.
Shelter and comfort were difficult. There weren’t any caves on the island, so I couldn’t cheat and just use that. By using some sharp rocks, I was able to construct a small hatchet, which allowed me to gather wood to maintain my fire.
I also discovered how stringy the bark of trees is. It took a few days for me to figure out that I could make some rope from them. I created a small net which made fishing a lot easier.
It took some time to build up this island to the point where survival is maintainable, but now that I have, I can only say one thing:
It truly is a paradise.
--
I don’t quite know how long I’ve been on the island. When you’re no longer dealing with the pressures of the modern world, you tend not to care about things like time. This life is difficult, but it is simpler, and more peaceful.
So, as you can imagine, I wasn’t exactly thrilled when someone else washed up on shore.
“Are you okay?” I asked as I resuscitate him.
His eyes slowly open and he chokes out the water from his mouth.
“Where am I?” he asks, groggily.
“I don’t really know,” I answer with a shrug. “Near as I can tell, it’s some random uninhabited island in the Pacific.”
His eyes widen. He stands up and starts panicking. I guess that’s a normal reaction to the present circumstances. He paces back and forth for a long time, shouting at the air for help. Eventually, he collapses and starts to cry.
I get him some water and feed him a small amount of food and he calms down.
“You’ve got a handle on this thing,” he compliments me. “I’m Rupert.”
“Natalie.”
“Natalie? You mean…”
I know he’s not in the best place, but I can’t help rolling my eyes. Even here, on my island paradise, I cannot avoid being recognized.
“Yes,” I retort. “Natalie Crocker, the actress.”
“I didn’t mean to offend.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Everyone thought you were dead. Imagine how happy they’ll be when they discover you aren’t.”
“Why would they?”
“Well, you’ve been here… what, eight months or so?”
“That long, eh? Guess times flies when you’re having fun.”
Rupert’s face contorts into a disapproving glance, almost as though he doesn’t understand what I mean when I say “fun.” In a moment, the glance is gone.
“Anyway,” he continues, “being here that long and being as… well-developed as you are … you must’ve thought of some way off the island.”
“Why would I do that?” I chuckle.
“Because… you must miss civilization.”
“Not really.”
This time, his face twists into a confused state.
“But… why?”
“I was making movies for about seven years, and never once got an ounce of privacy. I was harassed, bullied, mobbed by fans, and questioned about everything. There was nothing that was mine. I was desperate to get away from it all, and it’s not something I’m keen on returning to.”
Rupert just nods.
--
Adjusting to life on the island isn’t an easy task for normal people. For me, it was simple: the weight of the world was lifted off my shoulders and I was able to regain some clarity.
But for Rupert… it was a more difficult process.
Thanks to me, he managed to stave off starvation and dehydration, but he was otherwise restless. He constantly muttered to himself and seemed obsessed with getting back home.
Over a couple of weeks, Rupert managed to create an SOS sign out of various rocks. He’d figured that the only reason I had never been found is that they’d never been given an indication that I was alive. As such, he thought that creating such a sign would be the best way to get found.
I barely had the heart to tell him that I’d never heard a single airplane or helicopter fly over the island in all my time here. He didn’t quite like that and freaked out for days afterwards.
He’s so annoying. And the more that he obsessed with getting home, the more I started to realize it wasn’t something that I could allow.
It was a weird moment when I first thought of it: just one of those intrusive thoughts that people have, such as when you’re in a tall place and you have the sudden urge to jump. I know that escape is very difficult and getting back to civilization is even more so. The harsh conditions of the ocean and the exposure of the sun, not to mention the very poorly constructed craft that barely floats are enough to persuade anyone from attempting to leave an island.
Nevertheless, if he did manage to make it back to the mainland, then he’d obviously let people know where I am. Then I’d be rescued and brought back to the real world. Back to the hustle and bustle of Tinseltown.
Bills to pay. People to please. Deals to work.
I couldn’t have that.
I was happy here. Happier than I’ve ever been in my entire life. At first, the difficulty of setting up a habitable home was daunting, but once survival was assured, then it was nothing but relaxation and peace.
What would I have to do to ensure that I would continue living this life?
--
Rupert started building a raft a couple of weeks back. The first one was crude and didn’t make it past the first set of waves, but it did manage to hold him above the water. He tried making a sail with some of the larger tree leaves, but it quickly fell apart on the waves.
My mind was almost rested by how likely his failure seemed. He did not share my peace.
“Why do you even want to go back?” I asked him by the light of the fire underneath the starry night sky.
“There are people back home who are depending on me,” he replies, somewhat irritated. “I can’t just leave them there.”
“But it’s not your concern anymore. You can’t help them from here.”
“That’s why I’m trying to get home.”
“But you could die out there on the ocean.”
“I’d rather die knowing I tried than give up.”
He pauses.
“Not that I think you’ve given up,” he adds sheepishly.
“No, I have,” I reassure him. “The people in the world think that they matter and they’re clamouring to be heard. It’s a pointless pursuit of purpose in a desperate attempt for meaning.”
“But my job… my family… my house.”
“Your job?” I scoff. “When did humans get it into our heads that the value of our existence is dependant on how much money we have in the bank? You pay to fill your car with gas just so you can go to a job that barely pays you anything, just so you can squeak by as you pay for food, shelter, clothing, health care. Everyone is so desperate to survive, and yet none of us are living. At least here, I can feel like I’m doing both.”
“That’s narcissistic,” Rupert retorts. “You think you’re better than everyone else? You think you can just stay here forever and there won’t be consequences? What about your family?”
“Those deadbeats? Who only loved me for my money? They’re probably living it up in the lap of luxury since my death gave them all my wealth.”
“Your fans? Those that look up to you?”
“If you’re familiar with the phrase ‘fifteen minutes of fame,’ then you’ll understand that people will move on very quickly. I’m sure they mourned me for a while, but they’ve likely moved onto the next idol in their lives. The best I have to look forward to if I returned is a sponsorship deal where I talk about how I survived on the island. Just more fame that I don’t want.”
“If you didn’t want fame and hate the attention, why become an actress?”
“Well, no job is perfect, but I never wanted to be anything else.”
“Probably could’ve been an engineer or a tradesperson. With what you’ve got going on here.”
“Again, making money for the people above me so I can barely get by. I’ll stay on the island.”
Rupert stands up.
“Well, I can’t say that I agree with you, but I see that you are resolved to stay here. Good night.”
As he turns to walk away, that intrusive thought creeps into my head again.
“Rupert,” I shakily speak. “They can never know that I’m here.”
He shakes his head and walks off into the darkness.
--
At the end of the day, I couldn’t bring myself to harm Rupert.
As much as I was to ensure my lifestyle here, I couldn’t go the distance of murdering him. I would’ve gotten away with it, sure. But I would’ve lived with that guilt until the day I died, and that’s not what I want this place to be.
If I wanted to maintain peace of mind, I also had to maintain the peace within. Desperation will make people do terrible things, but I was not so desperate that I would violate who I was.
Nevertheless, when he washed up on shore this morning, drowned by the harsh oceanic environments, after being gone for a week, I breathed a sigh of relief. With him no longer able to potentially reveal my location, he was no longer a threat.
His body provided a good bait for marine life to get caught by my net, which helped feed me for several weeks.
Once his bones had been fully picked clean, I gave them a proper burial. I’m isolated, but I’m not a monster.
As I sat beside his grave, watching the sun go down, I closed my eyes and I tried to remember my previous life, briefly, to honour my friend.
I couldn’t even remember it. All I could hear was the gentle sound of the tides crashing against the sand.
No noise.
Just peace.
About the Creator
B.D. Reid
A competition-recognized screenwriter and filmmaker, building to a career that satisfies my creative drive but allows me to have time for friends and family.
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