My take on the Green
Chapter two: The
“Welcome to Hell.”
She lets the words hang in the air, her sword slowly edging closer to my neck. I’m torn actually; a part of me wants to laugh, ‘Welcome to Hell’? It sounds so cheesy if I didn’t flinch from the pain breathing causes me I’d burst out laughing. But then there’s the katana, it’s now pressed up against the edge of my jaw with the blade slowing digging into my skin and the look in her eyes shows me she’s not afraid to use it at all. And I’d doubt she’d lose any sleep killing me. The blade’s too real for me to laugh.
Her eyes narrow at me, almost like she’s trying to decide whether to kill me now, or leave me in my pain for a few more torturous days. With a fluid swipe she removes the blade and puts it back in the scabbard. Her head bobs up and the men holding me throw me back onto the ground. My breath immediately catches in my throat once the pain racks through my body, causing me to lock up in complete and total agony. The third man stays in the room while the others close the door behind them.
As wave and wave of pain washes over me I can see the man walk towards me as I squirm along the floor. He stops next to me and crouches down to my level. The pain from my back subsides enough to where I can lie still and with panting breathes, I look up at him.
This man, this man is different, I can tell. He’s older, maybe late forties by the wrinkles along his face and the slowly graying black hair. His beard, however, is ahead of his hair with age, having already become a mild shade of grey. His eyes are blue, and that’s what I can’t look away from. They, they’re different from the woman’s, they actually…care.
“I dually must apologize for the events that have brought us to meet Oliver,” He says in a rich British accent, his mouth barely visible through the shaggy mustache. “I was the one that shot your limo driver and, I must admit, blocked the calls to the ambulance that the people called in.”
“Why-why would you d-do this?” It takes all of my strength to talk and even after that I’m left with even less breath than I had before.
“Believe it or not Oliver,” he says, “It was to help you.”
“Help me? H-h-help…me?” I can barely breathe.
“Yes.” He doesn’t say anything else about it. Instead, he pulls from behind his back a single, black arrow. “I suppose you believed the item that ended the man’s life was a bullet?”
I nod my head, but never take my eyes off of the arrow.
“No. You see, I don’t believe in bullets.” His mouth tightens into a snarl at the word, “they’re just simple metal casing produced for just one act- to fire. But an arrow, oh an arrow. There is something about them that proves just the marksman you are. Anyone can fire a bullet; it takes an artist to fire one arrow, just one, and hit a target moving at forty-miles per hour with shaded windows. This, Oliver, is that one arrow. You may keep it, if you like. I’ve replaced the arrowhead though; blood is so hard to clean off you know…well, I must be going. Be seeing you Oliver.”
The man is at the door by the time at get the word out. He turns his head to my direction, but doesn’t entirely turn around…he doesn’t care that much…
“No Oliver, I don’t think I will.”
He opens that large metal door and with a screeching sound of rusted metal on metal, it closes.
My breath is still coming out in pants, but I still have time to mutter one more sentence to that one single arrow lying beside me, dried blood visible along its shaft.
The first thing that hits me is the heat.
Warm, comforting sunlight actually hitting my skin besides the cold desolate shadows of that cell, it feels so…natural, so…real. And then I breathe, my breath coming out with a single hint of pain and in full deep waves. I blink, and I suddenly see the great blue sky without a cloud to ruin it. With my sense fully returned, I move my hand to find sand in between my finger tips. I lift myself to sit up and take in my surroundings.
An island. That has to be it. I’m on a beach, coarse yellow sand beneath me and a large blue ocean in front of me. To my back, I can see the deep, lush forest, a large mountain jutting up from it like a skyscraper. My lips don’t feel dry anymore, and I’m glad. The pain in my ribs and back are gone, and I’m relieved, and suddenly I can’t remember why I would care about injuries I’ve never gotten.
Our boat crashed, right? Me, Mom, Dad, we were on the boat when the storm hit. I…I can remember rocks, Dad shouting and then…this. I stand up, not entirely sure of my footing and look to find the boat, but I don’t see it. The beach stretches on for miles at both ends and there’s no sign of the yacht anywhere.
My voice echoes through the forest. No answer. With the sun beating down on me I scan all around from where I am, but I can’t see anything than what I’ve already seen.
And then I look down.
One, single black arrow lies on the sand where I was laying. The arrowhead is new, gleaming in the sunlight, sharp and ready for use. I pick it up, running my hand over it until I suddenly feel a rough patch; something caked onto the shaft. When I look at my hands, they’re stained a brownish-red.
“It takes an artist to fire an arrow.”
The words come from nowhere and from a voice I’ve never heard, yet its…familiar, almost…like a memory.
I look long and hard at the arrow and suddenly feel a tingle of fear, slowly growing within me.
“…Where am I?”
End of Chapter two