To wash up on some distant shore. A dream so many would wish for. The actuality was less than my, or your, imagination would have had it.
There was sand, no shortage there, it looped around the island in a rough oval and tried to rejoin by a rocky outcrop the only thing to pierce it. There was a single, old tree, a soupçon of foliage and a few scattered rocks, that was all. Oh, I forget, or was reluctant to mention it, but there was also the silk scarf that had belonged to you, my once love.
I don’t know how I’d clung to it when the ship went down amongst all those screams? I don’t know how I’d not let go, as the water churned about me? I don’t know how it hadn’t washed away, as I’d laid half dead lapped at by the ocean on that foreign shore? I didn’t know a lot of things, had few if any answers, but that scarf had given me something nothing else on the island could.
You see, I wasn’t a hero, a survivor, or even a man driven by vengeance, I was a fool. A fool who had been in love, given his all to a woman who had cast him aside like an old dishcloth.
I’d left on the first boat I could find with only one objective to get as far from you as I could. In consequence, I found myself without food, without shelter, and without hope.
But, ironically, that scarf that I’d snatched so petulantly from your neck had given me the one opportunity I wished for: release.
I hung myself from that one tree, with that one scarf, a smile on my face. For that one thing, that one trinket of remembrance proved to be the best and only good thing you’d ever done for me. And for that, my once everything, I thank you.