Stranded – A Diary
Day One: Early Morning –
If you’re reading this then I sincerely hope that means that I’m sitting next to you on a comfortable sofa with a glass of full bodied red wine and that you are a full bodied red head, but I’m guessing that that will probably not be the case. With that in mind some introductions are in order.
My name is Will Carter and I’m an international businessman of sorts. Well hell, since I’m probably dead I guess I can be honest, I’m a criminal that has made the kind of living that most men dream about. I’m also going to go out on a limb and suppose that this document was discovered in situ, but to cover my bases and since writing this is likely the only thing that will keep me both occupied and sane I am writing it from a shelter I built on some God forsaken island.
I know only that this is an island and that I have been here for no less than a couple of days based on the scruffiness of my face. When I came to the first time and had a few minutes to think about my situation I went a little batshit. After I recovered my wits sufficiently I took stock of my surroundings, built a shelter and did a lot of thinking.
The men who put me here wanted me to think. They wanted me to live for at least a couple of weeks based on the supply of food and water they left me. Maybe they wanted me to suffer. Maybe they merely want me to be alive when they come back for me, if they come back for me. Who knows, maybe they didn’t want to feel responsible for my eventual death. I don’t know who they are since before attacking my yacht and knocking me out they didn’t feel the need to introduce themselves.
So here I am writing to keep sane, to keep from talking to myself too much, to note the passage of time, to leave something behind.
There are worse prisons I suppose. The warm breeze is nice. The food isn’t bad. I have a fire if I want one and all the paper I’ll need to keep this journal or whatever it is going for a while. But this is a prison and I’ve never stayed in a prison long enough to get comfortable. One way or another, I’ll get out of here.
If you’re reading this then I sincerely hope that means that I’m sitting next to you on a comfortable sofa with a glass of full bodied red wine and that you are a full bodied red head, but I’m guessing that that will probably not be the case. With that in mind some introductions are in order.
My name is Will Carter and I’m an international businessman of sorts. Well hell, since I’m probably dead I guess I can be honest, I’m a criminal that has made the kind of living that most men dream about. I’m also going to go out on a limb and suppose that this document was discovered in situ, but to cover my bases and since writing this is likely the only thing that will keep me both occupied and sane I am writing it from a shelter I built on some God forsaken island.
I know only that this is an island and that I have been here for no less than a couple of days based on the scruffiness of my face. When I came to the first time and had a few minutes to think about my situation I went a little batshit. After I recovered my wits sufficiently I took stock of my surroundings, built a shelter and did a lot of thinking.
The men who put me here wanted me to think. They wanted me to live for at least a couple of weeks based on the supply of food and water they left me. Maybe they wanted me to suffer. Maybe they merely want me to be alive when they come back for me, if they come back for me. Who knows, maybe they didn’t want to feel responsible for my eventual death. I don’t know who they are since before attacking my yacht and knocking me out they didn’t feel the need to introduce themselves.
So here I am writing to keep sane, to keep from talking to myself too much, to note the passage of time, to leave something behind.
There are worse prisons I suppose. The warm breeze is nice. The food isn’t bad. I have a fire if I want one and all the paper I’ll need to keep this journal or whatever it is going for a while. But this is a prison and I’ve never stayed in a prison long enough to get comfortable. One way or another, I’ll get out of here.
© 2004 by Scott Roche
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