Nameless on the Island of the Seas E-Book

Bea Eschen

• Herausgeber: via tolino media
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

The compelling story of a woman who wakes up on a deserted beach, completely disoriented and with no memory of her name, her past or why she is there. She must fight to survive, learning to find food in nature, make fire and seek shelter. Her senses sharpen and her instincts awaken, along with a longing for her identity and past. As she continues to survive in the wilderness, she makes disturbing discoveries: signs of a human presence; a dead body on the beach; and finally, a seemingly feral man who also lives on the island. Gradually, she delves deeper into the mystery of the island and her own inner self. In the second part of the story, survival gives way to something deeper. A quiet, unsettling truth begins to surface - one that is as explosive as it is inescapable. This psychological story of self-discovery blends elements of survival drama with lyrical depictions of nature. It explores the origins of identity, the meaning of life, and the mysterious ways in which fate can alter our path.

Leseprobe

Nameless on the Island of the Seas

Bea Eschen

© 2025 Bea Eschen

This work, including all parts thereof, is protected by copyright. Any use without the author’s consent is prohibited. Publication and distribution are carried out on behalf of the author, who can be reached at [email protected]

Contents

Foreword

I. A Matter of Life and Death

II. Of Waves and What Was

III. Isabella’s Reflection

IV. From Lilia

Also by Bea Eschen

Website Bea Eschen

Foreword

This is a fictitious work. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the result of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Part1

A Matter of Life and Death

My eyes burn, pierced by the harsh light like a thousand tiny needles. I raise a trembling hand against the blinding sun, the endless blue sky yawning above me. Where am I?

Warm, grainy sand presses against my other hand. I let it sift through my fingers, slow and deliberate, as if it could whisper answers. I try to stand—cautiously—but my muscles betray me. I collapse back onto the faded earth with a thud.

Something's wrong. My hand flies to my head, wincing at a swollen, tender spot.

Did I fall? Was I hit? Where, when? I inhale deeply, force my dazed mind to focus and try to sit up. Pain flares through stiff, aching limbs, every fibre of me a chorus of protest.

My body feels heavy, burdened with a memory too cruel, too dangerous, to resurface. Why was I in the water? What brought me here?

In front of me, gentle waves kiss the shore. Beyond, the sea stretches into shimmering infinity. All around me is a scattering of driftwood, bleached by sun and time—ghostly remnants of a past I can't remember. Did I cling to these ruins as the ocean swept me here? Or were they washed up like me, drifting aimlessly and broken?

A sudden wave of dizziness knocks me down to all fours. Time slows as I clutch the sand, wishing the world would stop spinning. My limbs tremble. My eyes catch a dark stain. Blood. It seeps into the sand. Am I hurt? I scramble to examine myself, fumbling with my fingers. Then a sharp pain pierces my lower abdomen. My hands throb as I peel off my soaked shorts. Blood. Clots. The truth dawns on me with a jolt: I've miscarried.

I was pregnant. By whom? The memory is locked away, out of reach. I drag myself towards the shadows, the waves erasing my tracks as I crawl. When I reach the cool embrace of the palm trees, the darkness swallows me whole.

A sound tears me from the void. My eyes open to a moonlit world of pale shadows.

How long have I been here? I need water. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth like paper. And then—the horror.

Insects buzz around me, drawn to what was once a part of me. A scream claws its way out of my throat, joining the crashing of the waves. Pain. Grief. Despair. But a voice deep inside cuts through the chaos: Get up. Find water. Survive. I stagger to my feet and drag myself to the shore. The sea embraces me, washing away blood and ruin. The cold brings fleeting relief, but the thirst gnaws at me.

Dawn breaks. I scan the beach for signs of life—for anything—but there is nothing. Just the endless horizon, and waves that seem to laugh at my suffering.

Then I notice a change in the terrain. The land rises gently beyond the beach, dressed in green. Life. My heart stirs. There must be water. The thought spurs me on. Slowly, painfully, I push forward. My eyes search for clues, a wet spot, a glimmer, the murmur of a stream.

Hope beats through me, even as the sun beats down on my skin. The roar of the sea is deafening, as if to drown thinking itself. The waves crash violently nearby deep and wild, ancient and terrifying. Spray whips my face. Still, I stare ahead, towards the place where sand gives way to green.

Thick bushes swallow the shore, forming a wall. My feet are rubbed raw but to stop would be to surrender. My thin top clings to me, useless. The straps cut into my blistered shoulders. I try to shield them with matted hair, but my skin pulsates with heat.

Every breath scorches my lungs. I need water. Shelter. I search the distance—but there is nothing. No signs. No movement. Just this wall of green that goes on forever.

And then, there it is: A break in the foliage. An opening, barely wide enough to crawl through. Hope ignites like a spark in dry grass. With the last of my strength, I drag myself towards it. Every step is painful. But this darkness could be my salvation.

On all fours, I crawl into the mouth of the jungle. Damp earth and crushed leaves fill my senses—a sharp, primal scent. The cool air floods my lungs like a mercy.

I claw my way through the earth, branches scraping my face, thorns slashing my legs. The underbrush rises like a fortress, thick and tangled. But I keep moving, panting, driven only by the promise of water.

The ground gets softer, wet. Was that… a trickle? I freeze, listening. Nothing. Perhaps a mirage born of thirst. Nevertheless, I crawl forward.

Desperately, I press my lips to the ground, praying for moisture. But my mouth fills with grit and sand. I choke, spit, cough violently. My throat is on fire. But I can’t give up.

I drag myself forward, one agonising inch at a time. My body is shaking. My breath comes in shallow gasps. Still, I crawl.

Then I see it: a narrow waterfall, trickling down a rock like a silver thread. For a moment, I think my exhausted mind is playing tricks on me. But it’s real. The soft dripping is music to my ears. I sob with relief. Water at last.

The first sip is like being born again. The cool liquid slides down my throat, reawakening my parched body, refreshing every cell. My heart drums in my chest, and the hollow pit that was my stomach begins to unclench. I drink greedily, leaning into the thin stream, letting it flow over my face and body. It washes away the weariness, scrubs the dust from my soul.

With every drop, my mind clears. Exhaustion gives way to joy. For a fleeting moment, it’s as if I’ve tasted the very essence of life—a pure, pristine moment in which I feel more alive than ever.

I lie beside the little waterfall, listening to its gentle murmur. This place, humble and hidden, has become sacred—a patch of earth where I gather myself. Through the canopy above, the sky shimmers a soft blue, interspersed with dancing shadows of green that sway in the breeze. For the first time, my thoughts begin to align. I am alone on an island, or maybe a peninsula. It’s up to me now, to survive.

The jungle pulsates with bird life all around me. Chirps, trills and the flapping of wings fill the air—an orchestral display of wild nature. The trees rustle. A shadow flits by. The world breathes. I close my eyes and listen, sorting the sounds. Then a thought enters my mind, sharp and sudden: Birds lay eggs. I open my eyes and whisper the words as if they alone could ensure my survival: 'I just have to find them.’ My gaze sweeps over the high branches and dense undergrowth. Somewhere up there, in a hidden nest, they might be—precious food. A spark of hope ignites within me, followed by a sobering truth: birds are wary, and their nests are well hidden.

As I sit up, the tug of torn skin reminds me of my condition. My eyes pass over scraped arms and legs, streaked with cuts, each a mark of the struggle to survive. My shorts are torn, the stain of dried blood a stubborn reminder of what I've endured. My top hangs crooked, a strap torn. I pull it up and take a deep breath. I'm exhausted, but there's a fire inside me. A will that won't be extinguished.

I know what I must do: find food, find shelter. But one thought remains: maybe I'm not alone. This fragile hope, delicate yet powerful, gives me strength.

I stand up and lean against a tree to regain my balance. My eyes follow the stream as it winds from the small waterfall into the green depths of the jungle. Perhaps it will lead to a spring. Maybe to people. The water shows me a path, uncertain but promising. With each step I take, a new chapter of survival begins.

Time stretches as thick as syrup. A strange, heavy tiredness comes over me, inexplicable and crushing. I sink to the soft forest floor, surrounded by palm trees and undergrowth. The nearby trickle of water breaks the silence like a promise of life.

For the first time since I washed up here, a sharp, insistent hunger claws at me. My stomach growls, deep and constant like the waves crashing against the shore where I woke up, dazed and broken. How long has it been? Days? Hours? I can't tell. Only one thing is clear: I need food.

Tiny berries are scattered all around me, glistening like drops of blood against the green. They look harmless. Tempting. But something deep inside—a primal whisper—warns me. What if they're deadly? But the hunger drowns out the warning. My hands move on their own. I reach out. The bush resists. A thorn slices across my finger—sharp, fast. Blood gushes. I stare at it, stunned. Then I lick the wound and dip the stinging finger into the cool stream beside me. I lift a berry to my lips, my hand shaking. A moment of doubt. Then I bite. Sweetness floods my mouth, unexpected and intoxicating. A shock of pleasure in this brutal place. For a heartbeat I forget the danger. If I knew they were safe, I'd devour them all in a frenzy. But I don't. I swallow, every nerve on edge, listening to my body, waiting for a sign. A burning in my throat, a twist in my stomach, something. I wash the taste down with water, pretending it's protection. All I've got is hope. Hope that I've just fed my hunger—not my death.

Exhausted, I sink to the ground, clearing away twigs and seed pods to make room for sleep. My body aches, every limb heavy, but something catches my eye, a brown glint in the canopy above. Coconuts.

My heart stutters. They could be anything—food, water, strength. Survival. I scramble to the forest floor and there, scattered among the leaves are several. Some are split open, their pale insides shining like treasure. I grab one, grasp a sharp stone and jab it into the soft eye at the top. The shell cracks. A stream of coconut water pours out. Without hesitation I lift it to my lips. The sweet liquid touches my tongue—cool, rich, alive. I drink greedily, the nectar sliding down my throat like a balm. It soothes the dryness, soothes the pain. Then I tear into the soft white flesh. It melts in my mouth. For a moment there is nothing but this unexpected pleasure, this gift in the wilderness.

My stomach settles. The hunger subsides. But my mind doesn't. How do I know how to pierce the shell? What it tastes like? I don't even remember who I am. Not my name, not my past. But that... that feels like soul knowledge.

And then there's the other thing. The thing I do remember. The miscarriage. The pain. The blood, and the grief. But there is no face to a man. Just a void where someone should be.

As I lie down, sleep creeps in. The ocean hums in the distance. Insects whisper. Birds call in the fading light. A haunting lullaby of the island. Soft, seductive and full of mystery, drawing me into a sanctuary of darkness.

I'm freezing. The moisture from the bush is seeping into my bones, into the hollows beneath my skin. I clutch my frail body, but the shivering won't stop. Above me, the moon casts a pale glow through the tangled canopy. Palm fronds sway like ghostly fingers, brushing the air.

Something catches my eye, a broad leaf, heavy and limp. Could it protect me from the cold? A glimmer of hope rises inside me. But I have no knife, no tools. Just my bare hands and the will to carry on. I get up slowly, my weak legs trembling, and reach for the leaf. A strange certainty prickles my mind: It's a banana leaf. How do I know that? The thought comes unbidden, from a hidden corner of my memory. Familiar, yet distant. Survival instinct? Perhaps. But there's no time to chase the answer.

I press my foot down on the stem, pinning it to the ground. The leaf resists, its fibres tough and wiry. I shift my weight, pull, strain, until finally, with a muffled snap, it breaks free. Breathing heavily, I sink to the ground and pull it over my body. It offers no warmth. But it gives me something else—cover, comfort, the illusion of shelter. That's enough for now.

Above me the moon keeps its silent vigil. The night sings around me, and lulled by its rhythm, I let go. Sleep comes, slow and heavy, like the tide.

The silver glow of the moonlight has faded, replaced by the first warm rays of the sun piercing the canopy. The heat caresses my skin like a whisper, gentle and forgiving. But my body cares little for comfort. It demands release.

A dull pressure builds deep within. I pull off my torn shorts and worn underwear and crouch down between the tangled roots. It's not easy. My body, starved and frail, struggles with the effort. Every push feels like scraping against stone. I'm shaking by the time it happens; dry, solid, like a shard of something ancient. I stare at it. Strange how something so crude can feel so meaningful. But there it is: a fragment of my past life, a silent trace of a meal I can't remember. What did I eat? And when? Before the sea, before the sand, before everything became survival. I lean closer, catch the faintest scent—almost nothing. Proof of how far I've slipped from the world I knew.

I rise, shaking off the moment, and make my way to the stream. Cold, clear water rushes over my hands, arms, legs—cleansing, awakening. My eyes fall on the half coconut from last night. It takes some time to chew it thoroughly, but it feeds me once again. Taking a deep breath, I raise my eyes to the sun. Time to move on.

After a gruelling climb through dense undergrowth, with the stream as my silent companion, the terrain suddenly changes dramatically. The thick tangle of green begins to recede, at first reluctantly, then completely, giving way to sharp, jutting rocks. With each step, the stones grow larger, more brutal in their presence.

Something has happened here. The landscape feels as if it has been carved by an angry nature, caught in the middle of its roar, its violence frozen in stone. Yet there's a strange order to it, as if these formations have been touched, even shaped, by human hands. A spark of hope ignites in my chest. Maybe I'm not alone. Maybe someone lives here. Maybe someone can help me.

But the spark fades quickly. The climb gets worse. The slope becomes steep, every ledge a test of will. My fingers dig into the cracks, slick with sweat. My muscles burn with exhaustion. Each breath is sharp and fiery. Yet I climb. Because there's no other choice.

At last, I reach the top. The rock beneath me is smooth, scoured clean by wind and rain, like a blade honed by time. Slowly I stand and look around. The world stretches before me, vast and breathtaking. And then I see the ocean—endless, dazzling, magnificent. For a moment I forget to breathe. The sight is electric. But that charge turns cold as the truth crashes in: I'm surrounded. This is an island.

Desperately, I scan the horizon. There's nothing. No smoke, no rooftops, no boats. Just water; an unbroken, unforgiving blue. Waves thunder against the cliffs below. My stomach turns. No civilisation. Just me and the sea.

The hope that had carried me so far shatters like glass. Tears sting my eyes. I search the wilderness in desperation, looking for something to hold on to; some sign, some mercy. Then I see it: a hidden pool, still and clear, a silent mirror cradled in the earth. I catch my breath. Not with fear this time, but with a fierce, fragile relief. I've found the spring. The only thing that could keep me alive.

The water attracts me like a magnet. I move without thinking, drawn in by its promise. Coolness envelops my body like a soft caress, numbing thought and fear. I float; my eyes raised to the vast, indifferent sky. The water holds me gently, whispering a truth I didn't know I needed: As long as you fight, you're not lost.

But now the cold begins to sink deeper, and with it the weight of reality. The truth hits me: This is it. This place, this wild, untamed corner of the world, is my life now. There is no going back, no other world waiting for me. Just this island—my sanctuary, my prison, my destiny.

The wind grows stronger by the minute, slicing across my bare skin. The rocky peak offers no shelter. I can't stay here when night falls. A sudden gust almost knocks me off my balance. I orientate myself and look west. The sun is setting. I've climbed the east side of the island.

Below me, the pond glistens. Water emerges from it in three places, trickling over stone. One of the channels is wider than the others. Perhaps the main outflow. I make a mental note to find out where it leads. Maybe, just maybe, it will lead me to food.

My stomach is churning with hunger. I curse myself for not bringing a coconut. But regret won't help me now. I must get down safely. I turn back the way I came. That path led to food before, edible, safe. The faint imprint of my former footsteps reassures me.

When I reach my makeshift camp, a strange mixture of emotions washes over me— relief, yes, but also resignation. This patch of dirt, this hollow in the dark, will have to be my home for one more night.

I pick the berries one by one, letting each rest on my tongue like a rare treasure as I am confident now that they are edible. And once again, a coconut rescues me from the agony of hunger.

I force two broad banana leaves from a sagging stalk. As I do, a bunch of green bananas snaps free and crashes to the ground. The fruits are stubby, tough-skinned, and unripe. I crouch down beside them, hesitant. They might be too hard, too bitter, but they're something. I pick them carefully. Tomorrow, at first light, I'll see if I can eat one.

Back at my sleeping place, I lay a leaf on the ground to cushion me and pull the others over me like a rough blanket. The wind begins to pick up. The night is coming cold and fast but I'm ready now. I curl up and listen to the rustle of the island around me.

Just before sleep claims me, I send a silent thought into the darkness—a quiet thank you to the island for letting me stay, for giving me food and water. There are no dreams this night. Just a deep, dense blackness that closes over me like a heavy, protective shroud.

The tide is receding, revealing a maze of jagged rocks; scarred, cracked, sculpted by relentless waves. I tread carefully, each step a test, my torn feet raw and aching.

Clusters of shells cling to the stone like blackened growths. I know they're edible, but the thought turns my stomach. Still, hunger doesn't ask for permission. I tear one off, rinse it in the shallow water, and swallow. It's smooth, salty, and alive with the taste of the sea. Two more follow, less hesitant.

I keep moving. Hunger coils inside me, slowing every step, hollowing me out. In the crevices of the reef, I spot a wild plant, its delicate leaves trembling in the breeze. Instinct tells me it won't kill me. I chew it down despite the bitterness, welcoming the sting on my tongue.

Then I see it. A dark, misshapen mass near the shore. My breath stops. The air shifts— foul. Something is rotting.

Drawn by a mixture of fear and need, I move closer. A body. Tangled in driftwood, half consumed by the sea. Seabirds circle overhead, screeching with ravenous hunger. Their cries echo like warnings, but I don't stop.

Who was that? I wave a branch at the birds, and for a moment I almost believe he might speak. A wild thought pierces my brain: Could he be the father of the child I have lost? I lean closer. The smell—salt, decay, something sweet and sick—overwhelms me. His face is barely a face, the features swallowed by rot. I search for something familiar. There's nothing. Just another nameless ghost.

But even death has something to offer. His pockets are washed clean by the sea, but his clothes are still intact. A shirt. A pair of trousers. Underwear. Every thread is precious now. Cloth means warmth. Dryness. Survival.

My hands tremble as I work. The shirt comes off, damp and sticky. The trousers cling to his stiff limbs. I pull hard to get them off. I hesitate at the last layer—shame, perhaps— but shame is a luxury I can no longer afford. I strip him naked. For a moment, I stare at the pile of clothes in my arms. This is what hope looks like now.

Behind me the birds return, screeching, waiting. I leave him to them and move on with my macabre loot.

The stone beneath me is smooth and cool, worn by time and tide. Waves curl around my legs, gentle but persistent. They swirl over the salvaged clothes, scrubbing them with sand and salt, nature's raw detergent.

I spread each piece over a lattice of branches and watch as the wind lifts and plays with the damp cloth, coaxing it towards dryness. Droplets fall from the fabric like tears, darkening the earth below.

The shirt and trousers are my treasures now, simple, tattered, yet vital. Shields against the sun, against the cold, against exposure. I tear a strip from the fabric and knot it around my waist, making a belt to hold up the trousers that threaten to slip from my hips. The shirt hangs awkwardly long, almost to my knees, but it protects me.

The underwear now serves a more intimate purpose: a makeshift sanitary pad, catching the blood that still escapes from my body; evidence of a wound that lingers deep within. Every scrap of cloth has found its purpose. Nothing is wasted.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---