We Are All Made Of Stars

• Kayla Wratten, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2013

Wild wind lashing wildly, salt water whipping through my once-auburn hair, the smoke, the silent screams- I recall the day as though it were only yesterday, rather than 22 years ago. The wretched day that haunts me still, the day we first washed upon the enticing shores of this traumatizing island that carries the constant, frightening aroma of mystery, curiosity and terror. Capturing its weak, pleading inhabitants through enigmatic snares and sly traps, the island strongly controls its restrain against escape, winding its misty, fog-like fingers around every living soul that touches its sand, until they’ve suffocated. Though my hair has greyed and my skin wrinkled, I will forever retain the day I arrived here.
Vicious birds swoop low, prying on this fragile man’s last attempt at breath, the same man who devoted 22 years of his desperate, forlorn life hungrily hunting escape. In the end, nothing mattered. Those who were lucky enough to escape the shipwreck spent the rest of their straggling existence searching relentlessly for a way out. Now, too late, I identify that the only escape from this tangle of torture is death itself. Unquestionably, death would be more consoling than nightmarish life on this lonely, sinister island.
And so, I calmly lean against the ancient brick of an old ruin, miniscule grains of sand providing a comfortable death bed. Tolerantly awaiting the darkness that ought to eternally engulf me, I discern that the relentless devotion I felt toward the tireless hunt for freedom has finally drained from my crippled body, seeping into the mass of black water surrounding the island. I’m left with an ache that fills every pore of my exposed body, resembling a mixture of relief and sadness.
Patiently, patiently, I wait for the island’s signal to Death, its permission to reach and claim me, pull me under and contort me, until nothing is left. I, the last survivor, wait for the island’s decision... and wait, and wait. A long time passes. The island is taking its time to select its deadliest weapon. What horrifying anguish would end its last dweller’s life? I am patient.
As I wait, the pinpoints of brilliant white light begin fading. I believe that everybody belongs to one star, which has the capability to invade and affect another if shone in the right direction. Like people, some glimmer and twirl brightly whilst others sparkle silently or hide in clusters. In a way, we are all made of stars, and all deserve to shine. My time to shine is over; the island has invaded my planet.
The last star fades.
Why hasn’t Death greeted me as it did my companions? Worry builds, panic fills, every ounce of me. Agony and torment boils as recognition dawns, the mist clears. The island’s decision appears before me: Death. Is. Not. Coming. This frail, old man’s soul will never be relieved. For eternity, I shall suffer on these malicious shores, alone and insane. The island’s last star will never die.