Withering Hope by Layla Hagen Read Free Book Online

mosquitoes can carry, all we can do is hope for the best. And the forest terrifies me at night. The night reeks of danger, and splinters of fear cling to my senses long after I am in the safety of the plane.
    We brainstorm for about an hour about what else we can do to improve our situation. Afterward, Tristan goes in the cockpit to sleep.
    Though I appreciate having privacy at night, there is an undeniable sense of loss when Tristan leaves me alone. In the short time we’ve been here, I’ve gotten used to him being by my side at all times. This whole thing could be unbearable, but Tristan makes it better. His presence is like an anchor. His gaze, which is watchful and something more I can’t quite identify, is heart-warmingly reassuring. I hope I bring him some comfort too.
    But at night, there is no escaping my thoughts. They grow darker with every day. The fact that there hasn't been any sign of a rescue plane doesn't help. Neither does my inability to sleep for more than five hours. It gives me too much time with my thoughts. Every night of this first week I fall asleep crying, clutching my wedding dress. Thinking of how desperate Chris must be physically hurts.
    Chris and I have been best friends since we were toddlers; our parents were very close. He became my lifeline after my parents died. He became my boyfriend a few months before that happened. I remember worrying that it might be a mistake, that our relationship would be short-lived, and we'd lose our friendship too. We had just started college. Chris was handsome, smart, and the heir to his father's business empire. But Chris remained faithful and loving as the years went by. He remained my best friend as well as my boyfriend. Always by my side. Always up for a good laugh or a meaningful conversation. He knew how to listen to me, and entertain me, no matter what—usually by cracking one of his epic jokes. I swear if he'd failed as a businessman, he would've made a fine living as a comedian. That's what I miss most. His infallible methods of making me laugh. Ironically, I don't miss intimacy that much. But Chris and I never had fireworks cracking between us. Our closest friends used to joke that Chris and I seemed more like brother and sister than a couple. I guess that's true, because we knew each other in ways others didn't. I wouldn't have had it any other way.
    At the end of the first week, the day the wedding was supposed to take place, I put the dress away, the sight of it too much to bear.
    Tristan and I spend our second week trying to make the place habitable. We build a makeshift shower using the bamboo-like trees as framework and covering them with leaves, placing one of the tightly woven baskets with water above. Tristan, who must have been some sort of magic plumber in his former life, adds a hollow branch as a pipe with some sort of mechanism inside that, by pulling a string, lets water comes out. Since it rains regularly and richly, and we've woven so many baskets to collect water, we have plenty to take up to four showers a day. It's the thing that makes the humidity and sweating bearable. We try to be careful and use as little shampoo or shower gel as possible when we shower or wash clothes, but we're burning through our supplies quickly. Aside from frequent showers, personal hygiene is an issue. Tristan shaves with the pocket knife, and when I get my period, I use whatever strip of fabric I can spare, since I don't have one single tampon with me. I wear my hair in a bun all the time, because otherwise the sweat might drive me to do something crazy like cutting all my hair off. We build a table next to where we usually light the fire, and use fallen tree trunks as benches. The place looks like a very rustic camp, if you overlook the wrecked plane.
    I don’t talk about the wedding anymore. Thinking of Chris and the wedding depresses me, so I try to avoid it, filling the silence with mindless chatter.
    I listen intently to a bird chirping