Tabula Rasa

"Quel? Je ne comprends pas cette lettre!" Sod’s law. Of course I ended up in the hands of a faraway Frenchman with no comprehension of the English language or the gravity of the situation I have found myself in. Not an ounce of understanding of the epic words he held in his hands. How did this happen? Everything was planned so perfectly and so meticulously, down to the finest, final detail. I had set off on my journey with the best of intentions - I was going to wash up on the shore of the neighbouring island (which was theoretically full of English speakers, may I add), and I was to eloquently and concisely alert my rescuer to the ongoing devastation and the tragedies that had occurred only a few miles away. It was becoming quickly evident, however, that the tides had vehemently turned after I had been launched into the sea and I was now seemingly millions of miles away from my intended destination. I wondered what this would mean for my fretful endeavours. Was it over before it had barely begun? Were my efforts dashed without a single smidgen of hope for a dramatic rescue of my surviving peers? For a well-travelled piece of paper, I was experiencing more feelings at this moment than most sheets do in a lifetime. Luckily, my ink was very very obviously not ink but almost a full bodies’ worth of blood, so my oblivious Frenchman somewhat understood that there was relative urgency in my words. My Frenchman was racked with inner turmoil, I could feel it in his aura. He understood that something wasn’t quite right, but really didn’t have the energy or patience for an adventure, which is exactly what I needed. His sweat was dripping all over me, so I could tell he really felt in a bind. As I was mulling over how best to play the situation, I felt myself rise from the earth in his purposeful grip. In a burst of uncharacteristic courage and curiosity, he took it upon himself to at least try and track somebody down who spoke my language and I had no choice but to surrender myself to his journey. My fate was quite literally in his hands. Over the next two weeks we travelled by horseback over mountains and forest planes. I didn't have any eyes so I had to trust that we were surrounded by beauty whenever my captor/protector let out an awe-inspired gasp. After two weeks I couldn't wait to get to some more ordinary landscapes. "Bonjour". Oh my goodness, my Frenchman had finally found somebody who would immediately understand me and end the demonic madness that had stolen my life. "Ja?" Jesus Christ. "Parlez-vous anglais?" I felt a morsel of hope rise within me that they did in fact parlez anglais. "Nein!” That hope was very quickly diminished. Onward we went. "Bonjour!” One iota of hope. "Si?" Diminished. "Bonjour!" Hope. "Oui?" Diminished and destroyed. I started to think that all English-speaking humans had been eradicated and that my dying pleas of desperation were set to fade into oblivion. The Frenchman's steps grew weary. We were both losing hope and gaining desperation and I knew we were close to simply giving in. The sound of an approaching car crept in from the sides and edged closer and closer as I attempted to muster all the hope in the world. "Bonjour." "Yes?" "Ah! Parlez-vous anglais?" "Yes. Can I help?" I was thrust into the hands of our newest companion with a desperate gusto. I was crumpled and my scribbled letters had started to fade under the unforgiving sun. After all we’d been through, however, my words still read true. My English saviour looked down at me with distrusting eyes and started to read aloud, an uncertain tremble underlying the cadence of each word. "If you are reading this, then I am dead. I have been held captive here, on Codfish Island since I was a small boy. There are many others here who I do not know. I have no idea if my family is alive but you must find them. You must let them know what happened to me and you must alert the police to the demonic devastation carried out by Dr P-" Wait, what? Where was the rest of me? Suddenly I felt half-complete. A scrappy rip cut through my mid-section. How did I not know I was torn? "What kind of weird joke is this?" My English saviour was as confused and as furious as I was. I was violently thrown back towards my original friend, crumpling and tearing even more en route to the dusty ground. Whatever remaining hope I felt had been well and truly depleted. As I gently fluttered down to the floor, in a careless manner that did not reflect the earth-shattering scenario I had fallen from, my Frenchman sighed a long, exasperated breath, stepped over me and started the long journey back to his home. I gathered dirt as life continued around me. Passersby oblivious to the severity they were passing by. I resigned myself to a life spent biodegrading into the earth beneath me. As my resignation sank in, my Frenchman too sighed once more with his whole body and his hands slunk into his pockets, gently caressing a stray piece of paper. I felt his touch. It was my other half. He stopped in his tracks and spun back around in my direction. He looked down at the second half of me, the half that held the key to this mission. He started in a run towards me as tremendous gusts of wind picked up between us. Against my will, I was lifted and started to rise and spin upwards. I could dimly hear the cries of my Frenchman but could barely make out a word. “Arrête ce papier!” Nobody around understood him. I willed my Frenchman to shout louder but the sound of the roaring wind was too much.