Short story - The island of the dead

The metro smelled like sausage. Or maybe mortadella, but one thing was certain—it definitely smelled like deli meat. It was 4 in the afternoon, and it was already starting to get dark. In winter, the days are shorter on this side of the world.

I looked at the map once more. There were still a few stations left before reaching my destination: The Isle of the Dead. The smell of deli meat had a strange effect on me. On one hand, it was a bit unpleasant, but on the other, it made me incredibly hungry. I stuck my hands in my pockets to see if I could find any remnants of the peanuts I’d been carrying the day before. I found a few and thought that, with some luck, I’d find somewhere to eat after getting off the metro. The journey seemed endless.

“Lucky me,” I thought as I left the station—there was a place selling slices of pizza. Through gestures and a few broken words, I managed to make the Turkish man behind the counter understand that I wanted one of his 1.5-euro pizzas. He said something—I suppose he wanted to sell me something else—but I declined. He handed me the pizza and moved on to the next customer. The pizza was cold, but I was so hungry I ate it anyway. Now I understood what he had been trying to ask.

From the metro station to the Isle of the Dead, it’s about three blocks on foot. It was cold and drizzling, the kind of drizzle where the drops feel like tiny needles piercing your skin rather than simply getting you wet. There weren’t many people on the streets—it seemed that people on this side of the world didn’t care much for winter.

I started walking, and to the side, there was a small street that, in my opinion, would shorten my route, so I turned there to escape the drizzle. In the distance, a group of young people dressed in black—goths, punks, or metalheads. I couldn’t quite tell, as they were bundled up, and their coats and hats obscured whatever they were wearing underneath. Suddenly, one of them shouted something at me. I pretended not to hear and kept walking, quickening my pace. They shouted more and more as I tried to play dumb, until one of them, the tallest, broke away from the group and ran toward me. I thought, “Well, this is it; this is where it all ends.”

The woman had a very serious, concerned, and annoyed expression as she spoke to me, glancing back at her group. I listened without understanding a word, and when she paused for me to respond, I said, “Sorry, I don’t speak your language,” with the most distressed, puppy-like face I could muster. The woman looked at me, horrified, and exclaimed, “Oh noooo.” She explained that they were from another city, needed to find the metro quickly because one of their friends wasn’t feeling well, and hadn’t found anyone they could ask for directions.

I showed her my map and pointed to where we were and where they needed to go. They left, and I sighed in relief as I resumed my walk—only one block left to the Isle of the Dead.

I reached a square where an elderly man was playing an electric guitar. The sound echoed off the buildings, amplifying and filling the entire place. Some tourists dropped coins for him, while others simply ignored him. I looked at the buildings—they all seemed far too old to be there with that sound, but the mix of elements gave the sensation of being in a dream.

I entered one of the buildings, walked through its hallways, paying close attention to everything on its walls, and finally reached my destination: The Isle of the Dead, one of Böcklin’s many versions of that painting—one of my favorites.