Cristelle Comby - Alone Together

Seeing as Killian and I were the sole survivors of Flight SWA 1528, these two pictures made the front page of newspapers in over one hundred and twenty countries. As for the last seventy or so countries, I was told they either didn’t have a newspaper or they printed our pictures in between pages two and six.

If only the rest had done that. For a little while, we were forced to stand at the centre of a media freak show. Everyone shone a bright light on us, dissecting our lives and words, as if we somehow held the key to answering life’s biggest mysteries or something. To say it was weird was an understatement, but it helped me understand and realise how much the media fed on instant gratification.

Everyone wanted to hear the story of our survival. Everyone wanted to know what we’d had to do to deny death; how it felt to live in such isolation with so little resources and even less hopes of making it out alive. Then again, we also got prize questions like, “Ninety-four days without a smartphone, that must have driven you mad, didn’t it?”, “What was the first film you watched upon your return?” and “Have you had time yet to catch up on your social media feeds?” Not things that goes through anyone ’s mind when the struggle is over.

People everywhere were curious about the dire thoughts that must have crossed our minds as the Grim Reaper crept closer and closer each night. How we felt about each other, what our prospects for the future were, how we planned to use this second chance at life.

“Have you seen Killian Gordon again since you came back?” they’d ask. “He was all you had for close to a hundred days. What was your relationship like on the island? Did it ever get physical?”

Wealthy people came from far and wide to meet us. Their briefcases were filled with fat cheques on top of book or movie proposals. The requests for interviews on television and in the press were too numerous for me to keep track of. Everyone I knew, from my dentist to the clerk I had to speak to at the tax office, wanted to hear the story.

Well, to everyone’s disappointment, it was a story neither Killian nor I wanted to tell. However, journalists are nothing if not resilient. Having long since discovered that empty spaces don’t sell, they resorted to being resourceful. It didn’t matter that we had nothing to share with them. They found words elsewhere to print on their pages, information to fill their air-time slots, websites and print columns. They went after our families and friends, talked to our colleagues and former school teachers. And surprise, surprise, at times like these, it turns out everyone and their dog has something to say.

While I had no interest in reading about my life—I was the one living it, after all—I paid attention to the stories they ran about Killian. As everyone on the planet was being fed misremembered childhood stories and bland anecdotes, I listened to the awkward stutter in the middle of too-short sentences, the long pauses between questions and answers.

I was surprised to discover Killian’s colleagues had a hard time describing him. They never strayed far from the professional sphere and had nothing more profound to say than “He was a hard-working employee who did a difficult job with ease”. Journalists didn’t get much further on the home front either, failing to find relatives or friends with an interesting story to tell. More surprisingly, they had yet to come up with anything resembling a former lover.

While the media struggled to unravel the enigma that was Killian Gordon, I understood what the Scot had never found the words to tell me. He was alone in this world, nothing but his job to cling to.

Soon after that realisation hit me, I contacted my lawyer for a way to get in touch with him. Later that very night, I was on the phone with Killian, stringing along words that barely sounded like English.

Even though I struggled to make sense of his replies without the visual clues I’d become so reliant upon, it felt good hearing his voice on the other end of the line. There were long pauses and silences that stretched late into the night. But it was a connection regardless. In the end, we didn’t talk much—we never had, really—but we stayed on the line for hours.

It reassured me to know that he was alive and well. It made me realise how much I’d missed him, missed the companionship we’d built on that monster of an island. We’d fought it side by side to total victory. We’d crashed together and left together. Each of us had left a part of ourselves on those shores. Each of us had gained something through the ordeal. Now that we’d strayed far from the island’s grasp and enough time had passed, I realised we returned home with something more than scars. We’d acquired a strength that wasn’t physical, a knowledge that couldn’t be shared. It was something unique that couldn’t be seen or touched, something Killian and I now both possessed, which resonated within us, echoing in each pause, stretching into the silences.

That island would never forget us, no matter how hard it tried. But neither would we forget it. I felt a sense of true human pleasure from leaving a mark, one even more distinguishable than what the airplane had left on its shore. We’d left a mark of gratitude on the sand, a sign of resilience and survival.

After that night, it didn’t take me long to find myself seated on a train north-bound, heading for Scotland, an English for Dummies book in my lap. I hadn’t been able to tell Killian on the phone that I was coming to visit. Surprise trapped the voice in his throat when he welcomed me into his flat two days later.

Never had silence been more fitting. The tears in his eyes did all the talking for him. There was a sacredness to them, speaking with a similar conviction to that of the waves that almost took our lives. They understood and they remembered.

“Daydreaming again, I see,” a familiar voice spoke from up-close, the words said with an even more familiar Northern accent. “You’re supposed to be working.”

I reopened my eyes. I glanced up from my beach chair to find Killian looking down at me. He’d wrapped a light-blue towel around his shoulders, his hair dripping salted droplets on his tanned face. Though he was trying for a stern face, I could tell a smile was struggling to break free at the corner of his lips. Wasn’t this who he was, to a T? I found the expression endearing.

A glance at my watch told me he was right, though. As of two minutes ago, our little business venture was open for the day. Sitting up, I planted both feet on the ground, feeling the warm sand roll beneath my feet as I sank in a little. The feeling brought a smile to my face as I turned to the juice bar on my left.

It had been built out of plywood and bamboo sticks, decorated with hand-painted lay flowers. Moving behind the counter, Killian flicked a switch. The “Fresh Organic Juices” neon sign buzzed to life. The ceiling fan followed suit, whirring to full rotation above our heads.

From a business standpoint, we were doing better than fine. In fact, we were doing amazing. Killian’s knack for numbers, strict business regimen and the logistical bend was the perfect counterbalance to my more emotional creativity. I’d come up with the flavours and recipes. Killian implemented marketing ideas before cracking down on numerical predictions. I knew that our business was young, understood that there would be bumps down the road. But those were worth driving over and handling. If the island had taught us one thing, it was that we were stronger together than alone. With a common goal in heart, mind and soul, I knew Killian and I could do anything we set our ambitions on.