Pull Me In The Undertow.


The waves washed repeatedly against the shoreline, a circular indent in the sand by my waist marking the path my finger was making. I was aimlessly doodling, waiting for the moment when someone else would have a hissy-fit and break out into a catfight, claws and all.

There wasn’t much to do on an island like this. Stranded, with no hope of getting back and a gaping hole in my leg—thank you, Mr. Travel Spork—the size of a torpedo, it wasn’t like I could pop into the gym for an hour on the treadmill.

I massaged the painful sore on my thigh, well aware of how it had happened. I’d been messing around with one of those travel sporks and I was still holding it when the boat jerked. I pledged to sue the company once I got back to the polluted world I missed so much.

I don’t know why I cared about getting back. The place was amazing. Sun, sea and sand: perfect. But no, all I wanted to do was get a clean set of clothes, sterilize the spork wound and crawl into bed. I didn’t particularly even want to go on the stupid boat in the first place.

OK, I’ll admit I’m lying about that. I’d been working myself dry for the last year and the last thing I wanted to do was stay behind while everyone else got to have the time of their lives. I didn’t get seasick or queasy and I didn’t have any outstanding health problems—it seemed like the perfect retreat.

But no. Fate doesn’t like to work that way. It likes to pretend things are going great, that you’re trundling up the motorized escalator to heaven, then suddenly you realize you’re only at the shopping mall and you’re trundling up the motorized escalator to that shop with the creepy assistant who looks at your bum and hogs the CCTV cameras when you go into the changing rooms to try on those tight yellow pants you’ve had your eye on for the past month or so.

Apparently, it also likes to maim my favourite leg with the bastard son of a spoon and a fork.

Rubbing the wound until it became little more than a dull ache, I stared at the horizon, thinking about how many times I’d wanted to see this sight. The sun was a perfect semi-circle, sliced by the softly moving waves as they cut towards the shore.

I glanced at Carrie, who was picking a thread on her shirt with a glum expression on her face. Cleaning my fingernails of sand, I cleared my throat to get her attention.

‘Hey,’ I said quietly. She looked up, pupils dilating as she stared at me. ‘Are you OK?’

She nodded silently, looking back down.

‘Alright then. Nice conversation we just had,’ I muttered. ‘Come on, Carrie. Talk to me. You were doing just fine on the boat.’

‘On the boat I was drunk and stupid and I wasn’t stranded on a random island with no way of escape,’ she snapped.

‘Fair point,’ I mused, staring at my feet.

‘Why do you bother talking to me?’ Carrie asked suddenly. ‘Why don’t you just go to sleep and keep your energy?’

‘’Cause I can’t go to sleep unless I’m absolutely deprived of energy which, right now, I’m not. Awake until I’m tired enough to faint,’ I said, smiling slightly.

She smiled back, though it quickly disappeared.

I shrugged to myself, prodding the spork-inflicted wound and wincing as it stung. ‘Dammit,’ I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked quietly.

‘Hurt my leg. Stupid spork. Doesn’t matter,’ I grunted. ‘Fuck.’

It was bleeding again, and it stung like hell. Pushing my hand over it to stifle the steady flow of crimson liquid, I searched frantically around for something to wrap around my leg.

‘Here.’ Carrie’s hands were suddenly in my face, a long strip of fabric clasped in them. ‘Hold it steady,’ she added, pushing my hand to the side and gently laying the cloth over my leg. With a jolt, I realized that it was part of her shirt. I could see her skin. Delicate and pale and soft and—

OK, Dominic. Don’t get in over your head.

Giving her a smile of gratitude as she finished the knot, I dropped my hands to my jeans and began to frantically rub them of the blood. It was warm and sticky and it had come from inside my body. Not good.

‘Thanks,’ I said, turning to smile at her again. But she’d been replaced with Brian. I scowled at him, turning away with my nose in the air.

‘You like Carrie.’ He stated blandly from behind me.

‘You like guys.’ I retorted. Immature, I know, but what’s a guy to do?

‘So do you.’

‘Oh yeah. Much more intense than with girls. More full-on, if you know what I mean. And you can do so much more.’ I said sarcastically, rolling my eyes.

‘Ew, you queer,’ Brian pushed me in the back.

‘As long as you don’t kick me in the side when I’m sleeping, I won’t have to suck you off,’ I informed him.

And the sad thing was that Brian actually believed me.


The rays of morning sun split through the sky, burning my eyes. I reached out a hand to shade my seeing instruments, hearing groans and complaints from beside me. Evidently, the others weren’t too pleased about it either.

‘Dammit, if I have to put up with this any longer I’m going to scream,’ Dallas grumbled as she passed me, offering a kick to my behind as I stood up and stretched.

‘What is it with my backside and peoples’ feet?’ I asked loudly.

‘It’s so yummy and gorgeous that nobody can help but kick it in the hope of killing you to steal it,’ Anna joked. She was still lying on the sand, legs outstretched before her and her hands behind her head.

My stomach rumbled loudly and I looked down, shushing it. It growled back in response.

‘Does anyone have any food?’ I asked loudly.

Nobody replied. Everyone else was looking towards the horizon, and I looked too. Nothing there; not a boat nor freighter in sight. At this rate, I’d settle for a dinghy pirated by Thom Yorke with bladder problems as long as I got off the fucking island with my face intact.

‘How anticlimactic,’ I muttered under my breath, scratching behind my neck and wandering over to talk to Dallas.