I had a future.

I had dreams, from a young age, about doing something great for this world. Being something great.

I think all children do. We want to be police officers, astronauts, or the president of the United States. We all pick careers that either reflect who we are, or who we want to become.

Me? I wanted to be a pilot because I saw how much money I could be making. Yeah, that’s it.

I originally wanted to be a teacher. Mathematics, if you care to know. I wanted to help people, and inspire them.

I guess that dream never faded, because when they told me about the job, I took it. The remote island they found in the Bermuda seemed inhabitable, but they needed someone to look at it. None of the drone footage ever made it back to the research team. I guess that was the first sign.

But you can see why I wanted this, don’t you? It checked all the boxes. It was something great, a line in my resume that would mark me in history as a brave man, and it was also something that could inspire others. Maybe one day, some small child will have dreams like I did, and see my name in a magazine and think: _maybe that’s someone I could be._

Alas, we may never know if people will see my name again. Maybe not in the papers, or the news, but on a headstone next to my parents. I fear that is all that will be left of me, because it’s been 2 years, and not a single soul has dared to come rescue me. But I guess that’s okay. It’s for the best.

The island isn’t inhabitable, as those wacky scientists thought. There’s plenty of fruits and small mammals to eat, plenty of streams to filter fresh water, and perfect opportunities for shelter. I made a small treehouse, raised up enough to keep my safe. I found out my first night here that you do not want to be on the ground when the sun goes down.

I crave the things my old home had. This place is growing into a fine community (if my neighbors, the squirrels, count as friendships), but there are things it can’t replicate. A cold beer, for one. I wasn’t an alcoholic, but the slick taste of it on my tongue would do wonders for my predicament, I’m sure. I miss my warm bed, and the comforting smell of freshly mowed grass. Even the putter and rumble of my brother’s Jeep, old and rusted and frankly annoying, would be a relief in this place. I also miss convaersation. The squirrels don’t like to talk back. They listen though, which is nice. They’re really the only _nice_ creatures on the island.

Regardless of my circumstances, which I guess you’re curious about, I can only hope and pray that this letter makes it off my island. I’ve tried, many times, to get some sort of message out. But the letters always float back to me, torn and mistreated. I don’t know who’s been opening them, but they clearly do not want me to leave.

I just figured out how to make some paper in this place, and I’ve been using juice from the berries here to write. It’s pretty cool, in my opinion. I wish I could share it with someone.

But it’s been 2 years, and they all think I’m dead. Whatever. I probably will be soon. They’re getting smarter, and learning how to climb the ladder. I’m running out of space to write, and I don’t have time to make more paper. But, I’ve kept a journal, so should you find me, you can also find it. It has a detailed description of this place and its wonders and horrors.

If this gets out, please remember me. If nothing else, remember me enough that you do not send anther person into this hell. But please, remember that I had dreams. And that I did not want to end up here. This was a mistake.

But it’s all I can do to wait. Or maybe I’ll try to find my own way off the island, though I’m sure that won’t end well.

It’s been great flying with you.