Between the Lines

 I had an idea a little while ago to write dialogue between myself and my brother Brian. Although we have very different personalities, we agree on so many things. That being said, I’m not certain if I’ll be writing much on this project in the near future. It might be a focus for something after publication of my first book. Or something.

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            Brian opened the wallet and looked despairingly inside. As was with everything on that beach, white sand fell out in single grains, and saltwater discolored the leather. I would have done the same thing, I think, given the chance, if I had found it first. It was a semblance of real life, of the larger world. A driver’s license from Georgia. Fifteen bucks, with a single bill covered in people who had held it before. The irony, some part of me, way back near the unconscious side, laughed.

            I was still dizzy from waking up floundering. If it wasn’t for him, I certainly would have drowned. He was always the stronger one of the two of us. I believed his logic would win out regardless of the situation. It is logical to keep my head above the water, he would monologue. Therefore, keep your head above water.

            Logic just worked for him like that. He sat on the beach with his cargo pants, worn and faded, his t-shirt covering his upper body was soaked and sandy, the words, “Everybody Chill. I got this,” Quickly fading in the sun. He squinted, frowned, looked at me while I tried to focus on him, saying, “I hate the sun. You know how easily I burn.”

            It slowly dawned on me that he might be finding ways to deal with what happened the night before. Or. Three hours ago. The sun had barely rose.

            As a waking brain tends to do, odd questions came with instant answers: What did happen last night? How are we alive? Where are we? What the FUCK?!

            The last one came when Brian plucked some woman’s finger from the sand and investigated it real close before throwing it away. The dude had to be in shock. Had to. That kind of calmness does not come from an individual entirely in control of his faculties.

            “Where are we?” I asked in rasped voice. The salt had dried my throat out nicely.

            He shrugged. “On a beach.”

            Yes, Brian. On a beach. “How did we survive the crash?”

            “Beats me. I think it was because we were nearly landed when a large wave knocked out the engines. Otherwise, we would never have made it.” He scratched at his bald head, looked up and down the beach, and then back at me. “Are you alright?”

            “Recovering. But yeah. Why are you so calm about this? I mean you just tossed a woman’s finger into the waves.”

            “No point being all retarded about it. I’m alive. No point wasting energy on making sense of it just yet.” He shrugged again. Yeah. Definitely in shock. I had never seen him so calm before.

            Well. He was always this calm. But. Given the circumstances. Yeah. Unnatural even for him.

            “Tropical island,” I said, giving the obvious. “Or peninsula. Uninhabited. Reminds me of Castaway a bit.”

            He chuckled. “No volleyballs though.”

            “No volleyballs. Morning. I need water. Food. I must have drifted on that chunk of plane for hours. How’d you get here so clean?”

            “Saw the island in the morning sun. I just kinda… floated to it.”

            “Any gear?”

            “I got my wallet. A saltwater soaked phone. Um. I still have my wallet knife.”