The Forbidden Island of Life

At the moment when she was very close to me, the girl suddenly stopped again, staring anxiously at my left hand. Only then did I realize that I was still holding the dagger. The girl was clearly afraid of it.

I threw the dagger onto the table, and with a loud *thud*, the blade sank into the corner of the wood. I said to her, "Come in. That's just my weapon for self-defense. It's nothing to do with you."

The girl stood in a corner of the room, her head bowed low, water running off her hair and clothes, dripping onto the floor. The cold and her fear made her tremble.

I threw her a towel, signaling her to dry off. To ease her fear from the cold and the darkness, I stoked the fire in the fireplace. The dry wood quickly caught fire, and the little attic was soon bathed in the dim yellow light, a soft glow against the dark storm outside.

She was really freezing. She instinctively took a few steps closer to the fire. In the orange light, I could make out her faintly blurred face. She had large, bright black eyes, a thin, slightly upturned mouth, and a round, youthful face, with a delicate, prominent nose.

Her body in the firelight appeared extremely slender, with the small breasts of early adolescence pushing up slightly beneath her worn clothes.

I hadn't expected the rain to be so heavy tonight. Her mother must have done everything she could to force her to come to me. And here she was, finding her way to my attic, timid and unsure, waiting outside in the rain, caught in a moment of fearful pause, unable to predict what would happen next.

I told her not to be afraid; I wouldn't hurt her. She didn't seem to trust me, still cautious, with a subtle wariness in her eyes.

I tried talking to her again, as now I had lost my former urges. It was as if, for the first time, I felt the long, tedious solitude of staying in this attic. I asked her, "Can you tell me your name?"

She blinked, but didn't answer. I became a bit impatient. She was nothing like her mother, who could speak to me so easily.

I suddenly walked over, grabbed her slender arm, and tossed her onto the bed. Her face filled with terror, her eyes brimming with tears as she looked at me. Angrily, I asked, "Are you mute? Do you know how to talk to me? If not, I'll strip you and make you sleep with me."

Hearing my threat, her long lashes trembled, and tears began to fall. I asked her again, "What's your name? How old are you?" She only cried, not speaking. I was truly angry at her crying, even wondering if she really was mute.

I threw myself onto her, symbolically trying to rip off her clothes. Her panicked expression and futile struggles almost made me laugh.

She twisted her wet body, desperately trying to resist, like a weak but stubborn boy. "Tell me your name?" I almost chuckled. "Thirteen? No, wait... almost fifteen?"

Finally, with fear and a childish voice, she spoke. 

I thought she was thirteen, but the last part was clearly a lie her mother had told her. I roughly pulled off her pants, hoping to estimate her age from her developing body.

I had encountered many young bodies like hers before, even personally burying some of them. The bodies of ten-year-old girls, wrapped in strips of cloth, their corpses scattered haphazardly in villages that had been looted. Even after many years, that image still haunted my nightmares.

This girl before me was more terrified and struggling violently. She curled her thin legs to protect her modesty, but I still saw her bare, unripe body, like a half-grown green fruit—visually raw, unripe, and unappealing.

I realized I couldn't hurt her; she was still a child. In seven days, I would leave for the sea, and if she were injured, it would be a great expense for her poor family. For that mother holding the cucumber, seeking medicine for a wound would be a terrible waste. The girl would have to endure the pain and wait for the injury to heal.

I released her and walked to the cupboard, taking out some salted meat and bread, tossing them to her. "Eat," I told her.

She stared at me with suspicion. I repeated, "Finish it, and after dawn, you can leave."

She looked between me and the food, hesitating for a while, before slowly reaching for it. After a bite of the bread and some salted meat, the taste combined with her empty stomach, and she stopped being cautious. She ate quickly, no longer concerned about her guard.

I sat on a nearby chair, watching her intently. She was the only woman who had ever entered my room without sharing my bed.