The Western Island by Evan Schwartz

He woke up like it was any other day. Perhaps it was. The birds swiftly glided over his hut. The dust settled, and his nightmares ended. He didn't have back pain, he didn't have knee pain, he didn't have shoulder pain, he didn’t have any pain. None of it ever did, but you would think it did if you took a look at him. He was a disheveled old man, an aging hermit. He was only 53, but he looked much older. 53 years had worn him, and the young hero that he was had long been dead. 

It was just dawn on another brisk summer morning. He didn't know what day it was; in fact, he couldn't even tell you the year. It was relatively chilly that day. It doesn't get very hot where he lived, nor does it get very cold, however, it does rain. But today, the sky was clear. He was glad it was, but he knew the gray would return. He left his hut and moved down the stairs, slowly approaching the pier. It was time to go fishing, maybe, perhaps. Would he keep eating forever? For how long was it worth it? He had lived on the island for six years, but every day he arrived again. And every day he died again. He hadn't smiled in six years. How could he? 

He wanted to hate his nephew, but all he felt was regret. It was him. He failed his nephew. He failed him worse than he had ever failed before, and what was done was done. It was like that. He couldn't go back, but boy did he want to. In his dreams, he manifested the monster he believed he created. In fact, it was the monster he knew he created. He asked himself, what have I done? What have I done, what have I done, what have I done? The teacher had lived six years on this island, and he knew, more certainly than anything, that he would never leave. He knew he would die there. Even if he wanted to leave, which he most certainly did not, he had sunk his ship. He got a glance of it sometimes. He made many good memories on that ship, but he couldn't return. He was a hero on that ship, and he was young. He was not young anymore. 

It was late in the day, and he stood on the summit of his mountainous island, far to the west. The descending sun colored the sky yellow. The waves pulsed, up and down and up and down. The gentle breeze hugged his back. The waves were no longer emerald to him. They were deep blue, almost sapphire, like his eyes. Lonely and lost. But something was different that day. He thought he heard something, from lower on the island, and he glanced down. He never normally had to glance like something was afoot. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened there. He saw the shadow of a person, a real-life human, slowly approaching him. Before he could make any sense of it, a young woman appeared before him. Pale with dark eyes and dark hair, she was not someone he had met before, but she must have known him. And that made him sick. He wished she hadn't come, but he knew why she did. He knew who she was, and why she was here.

He refused to teach her, and asked her to leave. But she stood like a rock, perhaps a boulder, too strong to overcome. She wouldn't budge, and neither would he. He chuckled as he thought of her, she reminds me of me at that age: stubborn, idealistic, and completely delusional. His younger self may have been gone, but a lost hero gets found one more time. He stood on the island, and glanced at the sea. He knew he couldn't be the person she needed. But sad stories can have happy endings, and he realized it was time to burn everything down one last time.