The island was reserved for the worst criminals on the continent. Everyone knew that once you were sent to the island, it was the last time you were seen by the rest of the world. Its exact location was a secret to everyone but the transporters. Of course some people thought they knew where it was, but the truth was that criminals could have been boated to the middle of the ocean and left to drown and the world would never know of it. For the good people, the island could have just been an idea.
I was one of those people who doubted its existence. But I had always been a conspiracy theorist, wanting to believe in what wasn't because what was didn't seem plausible. Or maybe I was just never satisfied with the way the world worked. You are probably wondering if that's the reason I did it. But you're wrong. So were they.
The shackles around my wrists weigh several pounds and rub against my skin in such a way that leaves them raw and bleeding. My time in prison had not been kind to my body. Every joint ached, my ribs were visible against my pale skin and my short-cropped hair lies in pieces over my eyes.
The transporters haven't bothered blindfolding me to keep the location safe. Since I will never leave the island, it doesn't matter whether I know where it is or not. There is no danger of me telling anyone but the whispers of the wind. Of course I have prepared myself for them to stop suddenly and throw me from the boat, leaving me to drown and be eaten by sea monsters. I awaited my death with the salty air biting at my open wounds.
The simple shift covering my body whipped around in the wind, not leaving much to the imagination of what was underneath. But it didn't bother me anymore, I was going to die.
