I knelt on the cave floor, breathing through my mouth to steady myself. The snake lay in front of me, limp and cold. My hands trembled slightly as I searched for two stones—one flat, one heavy. I'd seen this done before, in documentaries, survival shows, stories people mocked but now felt painfully real.
"This was never supposed to be my life," I whispered under my breath.
Then I slammed the stone down against the other, again and again, trying to break off a sharp edge. My muscles burned, my fingers ached from gripping the rock too tightly, and each impact sent a jolt up my arm. But finally, a piece snapped—a jagged shard with one sharp corner.
Crude, but good enough.
I swallowed hard and used the stone to cut into the snake's belly. The skin was tougher than I expected. It slid under my grip, and more than once I had to stop, wipe my shaking hands on the ground, and force myself to continue. The smell… that was the worst part. Metallic. Damp. Wrong.
But I kept going.
Just like on those TV shows. Just like survival experts did, except their hands didn't shake like mine.
I slid the blade up its stomach, peeling skin from flesh, trying not to gag. Kate watched from the cave entrance, quiet, small, her knees tucked under her chin. I kept my voice steady for her sake.
"It's okay, love. This is… this is food. It's good. It'll help us."
I pulled out the innards, careful to keep the good parts from the bad ones. I had no real knowledge of what was edible, but I remembered one thing clearly—better safe than dead. So I scraped everything out, keeping only the clean meat.
Carrying the skinned snake felt like holding a heavy rope of guilt and relief at the same time. I walked to the spring, rinsing the meat in the cold, trickling water. My fingers stung, but the fresh water calmed me. For a moment, the world felt… cleaner. If only everything else could be washed so easily.
"How do I even cook this?" I muttered.
There was no pot, no pan, no salt. Nothing except the fire, the stick I carried, and desperation.
I threaded the meat through a long branch, pushing it through until it held. It wasn't pretty, and the stick nearly snapped twice, but it worked. A crude spit roast.
Back at the fire pit, I positioned it carefully beside the flames, not directly over them—smoke would give us away, and I couldn't risk it. I turned it slowly, the heat warming my face. The smell was strange, but not unbearable. A sign that we were doing something right.
My arms were tense, my back sore, but watching the meat tighten and change color over the fire filled me with a small sense of victory.
I had never done this before. Never even thought I could.
But here I was. A mother roasting a snake in a hidden cave on a hill overlooking an island full of danger.
I clenched my jaw and whispered to myself,
"We will be strong. I will be strong. No matter what."
While the snake slowly roasted over the hidden fire, the smoke curling just enough to warm the cave but not reveal our position, I turned my attention to the greens my daughter had gathered.
Some were small, dark leaves with a faint shine, others broader with serrated edges. The shapes and smell tugged at my memory—vague, yet familiar. From somewhere long ago, in a market near the village I grew up in, I had seen similar leaves stacked in baskets, washed in cold water, sold to families who would boil or stir‑fry them.
"Look, love," I whispered, showing Kate the leaves. "These are good. You can eat them with the meat later."
She nodded, sitting patiently as I held handfuls of the greens in the spring water, gently rubbing off dust, dirt, and tiny insects. The cool water ran over my fingers, and I let out a small, almost forgotten sigh. For a moment, it was like old memories brushing the edges of this harsh new reality.
Some of the leaves had small tears or bites taken by unknown insects, but they were edible. I arranged them neatly on a flat stone, ready to combine with the roasted snake once it was done. The smell of smoke mingled with the earthy scent of the tropical leaves, and for the first time in hours, I imagined a proper meal—something warm, nourishing, alive.
Kate watched me carefully, learning from my movements, mimicking the way I rinsed each leaf, even though her hands were smaller and less steady. I let her help, guiding her gently, teaching her survival without words—through touch, through example.
The snake hissed and crackled as juices dripped into the coals. I turned it slowly, the meat darkening, hardening, changing from raw to something edible, something real. The thought of biting into it made my stomach churn with a mix of hunger, disgust, and necessity.
But alongside it, the greens—simple, familiar, and safe—offered comfort. A reminder that life could still hold small acts of normalcy, even here, on this wild and dangerous island.
I looked at my daughter's face, illuminated by the soft, hidden firelight. She was still small, still trusting, still completely reliant on me. And I would do everything in my power to make sure she could eat today, survive today, and see tomorrow.
I turned back to the fire. The snake was nearly done. The greens were clean and ready. And slowly, carefully, I prepared our first proper meal in this strange, unforgiving place.
When the snake was done roasting and its skin crisped in places, I carefully lifted it from the fire. Smoke rose in gentle spirals, the embers crackling softly below. My hands were sore and sticky, but I steadied myself.
I broke off a small piece and tasted it first, just to be sure. My stomach twisted as the flavor hit my tongue, but then relief washed over me. It was edible. Safe. Nourishing.
"Come on, love," I whispered to Kate, offering her a small portion. She took it eagerly, her eyes wide with a mixture of hunger and excitement. I joined her, biting carefully at the warm meat, letting the smoky taste fill my senses.
The first real meal in this strange, dangerous place. The warmth from the fire and the soft, cooked flesh spread through my body, easing some of the exhaustion and fear that had clung to me since waking on the beach. My shoulders loosened. My muscles relaxed, if only slightly.
We ate slowly, savoring each bite, sharing quiet looks and small smiles. Relief mingled with fatigue, and by the time the last piece was gone, my eyelids felt impossibly heavy.
I pulled Kate close, wrapping my arms around her small body. She leaned into me, breathing softly, the tension of the day slowly melting away. I felt almost like crying—from tiredness, from fear, from a deep, quiet joy that we had survived another day.
The cave, our makeshift shelter, seemed warmer now, the shadows less threatening. The moss and grass we had gathered cradled us like a small, fragile nest. The soft warmth of the snake meat and the closeness of my daughter chased away some of the chill from the stone floor.
"We'll find more tomorrow," I murmured, brushing her hair from her face. "Food. Water. Maybe even explore the other side of the island. We'll be ready."
She nodded slightly, already half asleep, trusting me without hesitation. I held her close, curling around her, letting the fire's gentle heat seep into my bones.
Outside, the forest whispered softly, the wind stirring leaves and branches, but inside, we were safe—at least for now. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed myself to rest.
Tomorrow would be hard. Tomorrow would demand courage, resourcefulness, and vigilance. But tonight, we were alive. And that, for now, was enough.