Nothing ever makes sense in my head. It’s something that I’ve grown used to. Everything is chaotic, jumbled up like pieces to a puzzle, and there’s always a piece missing. So, it never can be put back together. I’m used to feeling like there’s something going awol in my head.

But when I open my eyes, staring up at a sheet of white and blue, there’s more than a little missing. I blink a few times, realizing that I’m staring up at a sky. I know because there’s a sun, and already it’s hurting my eyes. Squeezing my eyes shut, I think. Where am I? Feeling around me tells me I’m in the sand. Here, in the shade of what looks like a forest, I can see the ocean. It stretches for miles in both directions, never ending in front of me. I only know its the ocean because I can smell the salt in the air, feel it drying on my skin. Did I wash up out of there? But who put me there in the first place?

The chills cross over me as I give myself a once-over. The orange jumpsuit I’m wearing reminds me of prison inmates. My name is stamped across the left breast in black chunky letters. I think it’s my name anyway, and the confusion that passes through my head scares me. I check the pockets, finding nothing but a pocketknife. No food, soap, or anything. The fact that I’m wearing this hideous orange jumpsuit stands bold in my head. There’s a connection in my head missing, and the rest of the brain is trying its best to find it. Prison. That’s all I can come up with. But that doesn’t make any sense.

I sit down in the soft grass, resting my chin on the knees I pull up to my chest. I'm hungry, that much I do know, primarily based on the fact my stomach is growling. Growling. There's another connection I'm missing. That word seems much more familiar to me than 'prison'. I dig through my pockets, holding the little knife in my hand. Now, this is something I know how to handle.

***

A woman slowly turns back and forth in her office chair, looking up at the six bright screens on the wall. Her partner scribbles on a memo pad, watching her move across the room in slow motion. He sets his pad down and reaches around to touch her shoulder.

“Is everything ready?” he asks, as she turns to face him.

“They are placed around the beach surrounding the island. They should be waking up soon.” She looked up at the screens again. “They are waking up as we speak.”

“I would like to know their names,” the man says, sad almost, turning to the screens.

“We will soon enough. Just let the cameras do their jobs, and we will see everything we need.”

“This doesn’t feel right.”

“This is the only option we have left.”

I stir awake, moaning groggily from the blistering pain I feel on my head, hands and feet. It’s like I’m being cooked alive. I crack open my eyes - blinding light forces me to squeeze them shut. Drawing deep breaths to stymie instinctive panic, I inhale the scent of the ocean, forest and earth, and the pervading hotness enwrapping me that is worsening my pain. I cannot remember the details of a memory, but I know without a doubt I have been put into this situation before: I become aware that the sun is killing me. There is no time to think about the whys and wherefores. It won’t be long before I pass out.

I scramble onto fours and crawl towards a significant drop in temperature I can sense. There is a long stretch of shade ahead of me; the forest is ahead. With every movement my body agonises. I must be bleeding: viscous liquid rolls down my face and sand is plastered to my palms and feet, scraping and digging deeper into my raw skin. The uncomfortable clothing I am wearing traps the heat in like an oven, but it is protecting my torso and limbs from the worst of the sunlight.

It is too slow going. I venture to stand up - a wave of nausea strikes me and I almost topple over. With my hands spread out in front of me, blindly, I shuffle as quickly as I can into forest cover.

The pain is unrelenting; my whole body feels like it’s on fire, starting with my head, and fear redoubles in me. I insist on a steady pace. To fall and to reorient myself will waste valuable time.

At last, the smell of fresh dew greets me as the landscape changes. Shadows solace me. The wet grass and firm earth feel good; and instantly, with direct sunlight out of the way, my skin cools and I feel relief. It isn’t much but it buys me time to search out a cave or a fallen log hideout wherein I can rest and heal until nightfall.

All around me I can hear birds and insects chirp, leaves rustling in the breeze, the waves roil on the shoreline in the distance. My breathing is laboured. A few large mammals bolt off away from me when I step closer in their direction. I guess they are wild boars from their thermal shapes and whines and grunts. My hunger pangs but I am too weak to hunt. There is a strange sound that pricks me into alert. It is faint but distinct. I can hear humans whispering. They are far enough that I can’t sense anything else about them, but I will have ample warning should they come towards me.

I do not yell out for help although the yearning to feed is almost overpowering. There is no previous experience from which to draw reasons, but instinct warns me to stay quiet and I comply. There is no telling what sort of danger they pose. Still, the noise I make is loud to my ears. Veering away from them I hurry, stumbling over tree roots and feeling my way from trunk to trunk, going into thicker canopy.

There isn’t much to do but explore the small bit of beach I’m sitting on. I could delve into the forest, but looking at the shadows of the trees sends waves of shivers over my body. I like the warmth of the sun on my body, although the air doesn’t move through the suit as well as I would like it to. There’s a decision to make: stay out here where it’s hot or go inside where there is food.

Food. I need food.

I take a slow step into the forest, which is unusually thick, I think, for a forest by a beach. I can’t remember what forests by beaches look like, but this doesn’t seem too familiar. The trees are too close together, casting too thick of shadows. Standing here, I can barely see in front of me, forcing me to hold my arms out in front of me just to walk. After a few minutes, my eyes adjust, and I can walk easily, a little stooped over from the thick branches.

Along the way, wherever I’m going, I pick up a big stick. It’s about the circumference of my forearm, about my height. While it looks like it should be heavy, it’s not. I watch the muscles on my arm ripple as I pick it up, the struggle that doesn’t communicate back to my brain. It doesn’t make sense to me that I’m strong, stronger than I think I am. Not a lot about this makes sense. I walk slowly, shoulders pulled up around my neck, goosebumps gathering on my arms. The sleeves of the suit cut off at the elbow, so I feel easily the chill of the shadows.

While I walk, I carve the stick into a spear. I’m not sure how I know how to do that, but I do. The movement of my hands distracts me from the fact that the forest really creeps me out. Ahead, I hear boars. No, I smell boars. How do I smell animals? It’s not like I smell their waste, smell the stink of them from a distance. No, I smell their presence, their hair and their tusks. Letting out a small breath, I crouch down and follow their path. My mouth waters, the smell of them overtaking me almost. They seem to be running, and I am crawling. At this rate, I won’t catch up.

Running. Running connects in my head with fleeing. The two words seem to go hand in hand. What would these large animals be running from? Is there something scarier than them? On a whim, I turn and head away from them, my spear held across my chest like a shield. There is something ahead. I can smell it. Flesh, from a human, but it smells almost inhuman. That’s hard for my mind to wrap itself around. How can something be inhumanly human? As I walk, I’m getting closer. The coppery human smell gets stronger, and it hits me that it’s blood I smell.

I can’t be sure if this person is a threat or not, but I do know that I’m walking without sound. If they can hear me coming, then they are listening hard. I crouch down behind a tree, looking around the peeling bark to see the crawling figure of a man. He’s bleeding through his orange jumpsuit, almost burrowing his way through the undergrowth. The overwhelming urge to help him hits me, but I don’t know if he is a threat yet. Is it worth the risk? My breathing slows to almost non-existant. I could follow behind him, watch him wander. But I’m still hungry. The smell of him is making me sick to my stomach, but that might just be the hunger. I can’t tell the difference. So, I follow him, watching his every move, how carefully he moves as to not hurt himself more. Ahead, there’s a clearing of light, a rare burst of sunshine in the darkness of the forest. He’s walking towards it but doesn’t seem to know.

Why does that matter? I dig around in my head. Why does it matter that there’s sunlight ahead. Sunlight. Warmth. Life. Death. I run through the associations in my head, trying to find the missing link. Sunlight. Death. Blood. Copper. Sunlight. Blood. Vampire. That’s where the inhuman smell comes from. A rational part of my head tells me vampires aren’t real, but there’s a bigger part of me that knows different. I don’t know how I know they exist, but I do somehow. And as he crawls forward, I move with incredible speed and agility, so much so that I surprise myself. Holding my spear steady, I stand in front of him, in the circle of sunlight.

“Stop, please,” I say, struggling to find the words in my head. “Sun. There’s sun.” The words almost don’t make sense, but they get the point across.

The ambient temperature feels like it is maintained on a steady point in every direction. The cacophony of forest noises sounds like static that washes away any discernible difference in the environment. Under the shade of the interwoven canopy, I open my eyes to better gauge where I am: I squint and blink hard and quickly surrender the use of my sight. Everything still reflects intense painful light so that I can hardly make out an outline. I don’t know how long I have been walking, crawling, making my way forward to hide from the sun - or have I been travelling in circles like a trapped animal who is uselessly exhausting itself to death? Every move I make feels leaden and unwanted; my body is admitting defeat. The coppery taste of blood stains my mouth; I have been biting the inside of my lip to force focus.

Hope springs in me suddenly. There is a flare in temperature behind me. It is higher than what I know to be normal for a human. Her scent is unusual, it smells like corn chips, and what should be an enticing honeyed sweetness, a wild gamey taste emanates from her warm, life-giving blood. I salivate and pull back the strong instinct to turn around and rush in to pounce on her. She makes no sound in stalking me besides her heartbeat. My guess is she is either a native to the woods or a skilled huntsman. She doesn’t scare me. I cannot outrun her but I may be able to outwit her.

I pretend to take no notice of her and deliberately take a winding path. She follows at a distance and I become sure that she finds some sort of value in me, perhaps as a prey, ritualistic sacrifice, or pure sport. I decide to take a risk and force her to help me. If she doesn’t, and as I burn, she may lose interest in a fried wisp of a man and I will have one less danger to worry about. The cost is high, I can easily lose my life, but I have been wasting it away for naught and there is little time left.

We come to an clearing that I have been avoiding and bears the full brunt of the sun. I do not change my course this time. The heat is overwhelming as I near; panic rises and I struggle to walk to my doom. I am about to enter it when she bursts out in front of me with an astonishing speed that isn’t humanly possible. Something sharp points into my chest that I assume is her weapon.

“Stop, please,” the woman says, sounding almost pleading, her words punctuate as if the language is unfamiliar to her. “Sun. There’s sun.”

She knows it can kill me. She knows the reason why. Unbridled, as if it’s a question that’s been waiting to be asked, the answer comes surprising me: I am a vampire. A piece of the puzzle clicks into place and another neatly follows suit after the series of clues I have noticed: she is a werewolf. The two important pieces of information feel wrong like lies, like they don’t fit into the natural order of the world we're in, yet I cannot remember my life before the moment now, and we, as these creatures, are paradoxically what I know to be true.

I bank on the kindness she has shown me. “I need shelter,” my raw voice manages to croak out. “I can trade.” I don’t know what I can use to bargain but the proposition buys me time and the chance to recover if accepted.

The man in the office chair jumped awake at the sound of voices. His clipboard slid off his chest and fell to the floor, creating one of the loudest sounds he had ever heard. Swearing, he picked it up, looking at his partner. Somehow, she was still asleep. Instead of waking her, he surveyed the screens.

On the walls, the two natural enemies had met. Both in personality and nature, they were to be complete opposites. Their superiors had planned it that way. As the woman, who held a hand made, crude spear in her hands, saved the scrambling man, he asked her to help him find shelter. On this side of the screens, the man in a suit punched some buttons and pulled up the island maps.

The female asleep in the chair beside him snored lightly, her black hair falling over her face. The man leaned back in his chair and watched the two of them, as the woman looked around her for something, shelter, probably. He could just barely hear them over the camera’s speaker system. He caught a glimpse of the name, black, bold letters across her left breast. Jess.

“At least I know one of you, now,” he muttered, scribbling the name on one of the manilla folders on his station.

~~~

I’m not sure what he said for a minute. I have to turn my head and face my ear towards him. Yet, after a moment, I realize it was the language. At first, the language was unfamiliar. Hadn’t I just spoken it? Rubbing my temple, I analyze his words one at a time.

I, as in him. Need, as in he will likely die without it. Shelter, a place safe from something, like a fire or a storm. I, again as in him. Can, as in am able. Trade, to exchange goods. When spaced out, they make sense. Why is this so hard for me? In my head, everything is picturesque; it just gets lost in transmission. It’s the word ‘trade’ that catches my attention. What is it that he has to give me? Yet, I need shelter too. Night will be here soon, and there’s no telling what will come out of these weird woods when the sun sets. It does occur to me that he’s a night dweller, but I’m not. At least, I don’t think I am. Thinking about it makes me doubt myself. Still rubbing my head, I lower the spear and step back. I dig around in my head for words.

“We both need shelter,” I say, more sure of the combination of sounds, “But I doubt that you have anything I would need, seeing as you look to be in the same position I am.” I point my spear down and rake it across his jumpsuit. It needs cleaning. He is wearing the same orange suit, the one that screams prison and makes no sense to me. “Lucky for you, I’m nice,” I add, looking around the woods. Was I nice? That didn’t sound right, but I said it with such confidence. There was no way of being sure I was, and I have absolutely no idea who I am. If there ever was a time to be a better person, I guess the time is now.

“Stay here, and I’ll climb up to the canopy of the forest and see if I see anything,” I say, laying my spear on the ground as an act of trust. I doubt he’s in any condition to attack me, or to climb this tree. What other option do I have? Judging by the smells and sounds I’m surrounded by, he’s the only other human on this land. I’d rather be with him than wandering around aimlessly alone. I turn and find the tree with some good footholds, wondering where I even learned to climb trees. It’s easy, a slow rhythm of pulling and pushing myself up. Lost in the concentration of movement, I forget and am surprised by the open air I feel as I break through the surface. A huge expanse of forest stretches in one direction, and the sea is behind me. On the other side of the forest, there’s a single hill of earth. It’s a tall pile of ground, shaping up to a point. I can’t see behind it, but I assume the ocean wraps itself around.

I push myself down, back under the shelter of the branches and glance down to find my foot holds. Below, I can see the speck of life that is the man, and I feel something knotting up in my stomach. I’m frozen, like ice almost, unable to tear myself away from this position. I’m holding my breath; my hands, holding on to the branches for dear life, are both convulsing. Bile rises up in the back of my throat. I don’t recognize the reaction of my body to the ground below, but God, I’m so high up.

I’m afraid of heights.

There’s a fuzzy memory in the back of my mind of standing, no sitting, in a cart on rails. I feel the cart lurch forward, my stomach in my shoes, and that’s what I’m feeling now, without the wind in my hair. Back in the present, I hold myself as close to the tree as I can, clenching my eyes closed. Now wasn’t the time for that memory to come back. Blindly, nearly panting, I scale back down the tree, scraping my hands up badly along the way. I miss a foothold and end up falling, landing on my back. Luckily, it must’ve not been far up, because the impact does do anything other than scare me. Breathing heavily, I turn to the man.

“There’s a hill up ahead, a pointy hill,” I say, biting my lip, “It’s a mountain. Maybe there’s a cave up there.” I can’t be sure where that connection came from, but it makes sense now that I’ve said it.

In a display of power, she ignites a sharp line of pain across my chest with her weapon, making me grimace and gasp; the material of my clothing sticks to my blistered skin. Before I can swat away or grab it, the provocation is gone. The woman, quick and adept, sounds satisfied that I cannot challenge her in close proximity nor when given a chance. She makes it clear that I am at her mercy.

What she has said reveals her to be alone as much as I am and in nearly as much desperate straits; I store away the tidbit and that I wasn’t an intended target of hers. She is lost as I am and contrary to my initial assumption, she isn’t a native to the lands; am I? There is a whisper of an idea, misty and teasingly out of reach, about our connection together.

She places something beside me and from the long narrow impact it makes on the ground, a spear appears in my mind. She is sure and arrogant that I am unable to use it against her or I wonder if she may have lent the weapon to me for my own protection. I mutter an assent to stay put but fatigue and weakness congeal the words into a muffled noise. The safety of company and the predictable forest sounds lull me into sitting down, lying on my back, and going to sleep, but I don’t want to let my guard down thus exposed, so, with wearisome effort, I busy myself.

As she climbs the tree, I run my hands gingerly along myself trying to determine what clothing I am wearing and so find out a bit of how I got here. It is long sleeved and trousered as one suit and a zip runs through the middle to end near my belly button. I feel the breast pockets and I reach inside each to pull out a small box. I finger the dimensions. It is about the length of my forefinger, the width of a first knuckle, and owns a rough strip on one side. The slits outlined on the ends suggest I can open it. I try to thumb it open from the topside but it doesn’t yield; I push it lengthways and it slides out easily. Inside, the contents feel rough-hewn, like a bundle, and further investigation nets me individual sticks of some kind. I twirl one carefully between my thumb and finger, feeling its brittleness, and the thin stick ends on a frightening tip that causes me to drop it.

I remember a snapshot of myself squatting on a dirty wooden floor, breathing in sunlit golden dust in the still air. Cobwebs and grimy windows and scant old furniture remain in the room; I feel like a mischievous visitor. I am holding the same stick, sturdy and unwieldy in my little fingers, its bulky container in my other hand, a sense of excitement bubbles in me, and I hear somebody with a young familiar voice - a haunting echo - egg me on, “I wanna see - “

I snap open my eyes and the sunlight flash blinds me. I stumble backwards and trip onto the forest ground. The box falls from my hand. She rushes down the tree and lands with a loud thud. Heart pounding and heaving, I scramble further away from the matchbox as if it can kill me of its own accord. I don’t hear what she says. The world sways in my head, making me feel dizzy and nauseated and I swallow thickly. Pointing in its direction, I say the last thing to her before my head hits the ground, “Fire.”

At the sight of the man’s body, I cuss. Loudly. What was it he had said before he passed out? How do I know he’s not dead? Still cussing, I lean down and hold a finger under his nose. He’s still breathing, I think; it’s hard to tell that way. The thought hits me that I would know if he was dead by the smell of him. If I can smell the life in him, I could sense it when he died. Lucky for me, he’s not dead. My eyes move towards the area he pointed at. There’s nothing but a small box. Upon further instruction, I notice that it’s filled with little sticks with a strong smelling red paint at the end. On the back of the box, there’s a scratched up strip of rough paper. Carefully, I break off one of the sticks, surprised at how flimsy they are. They aren’t weapons, and they aren’t food. An urge to scratch the stick across the rough paper hits me, and I do so, slowly, the red part meeting the rough paper with a sound that gives me goosebumps. Nothing happens. Faster maybe?

I scare myself with a scream when the stick bursts into flames. Without hesitation, I throw the stick to the ground, taking several steps away from the little fire that is starting. Matches. He found matches. There’s nothing scary about those. Shoving the box in my pocket, I stomp out the fire before it spreads. This guy must be stupid, passing out at the sight of fire. Doesn’t he know we’ll need it to cook food and stay warm? Rubbing my temple, I kneel down and stare at him. How am I supposed to get to shelter now? I would either have to carry him or drag him, and by the sight of him, dragging isn’t a good option. He would probably fall apart. But night is falling, and I need to move. Fast.

Whatever, I’ll carry him. Without any trace of gentleness, I pick the man up and sling him over my shoulder. I’m surprised I have the strength to do so, but it’s like he’s barely there. It’s easy to walk straight, following what I think is the direction of the mountain I saw from the top of the trees. As the sun begins to set, the incline of the ground increases, and I’m breathing heavier every second. The trees thin, too, until I’m facing a steep hill with just as many trees. These are different though, taller and skinnier. They have big heads, making them good shade trees, but they are thin and easy to walk under. This is what a forest feels like, I think. The mountain stretches up above me, as far as I can see. The top isn’t visible, but I sense it lies somewhere above the tree tops. Walking on ahead, I kick something and cry out, swaying under the invisible weight of the man. Under my feet are these huge rocks covering the ground. They go on for as long as I can see as well, up onto the mountain side. There’s a literal line where they began, with no pebbles or anything first. It doesn’t seem very natural. With much more effort than before, I continue walking, not almost climbing, until I stumble upon a gaping hole where the mountain side should be.

Is this a cave? I can’t see anything through the blackness of the cave, but I don’t sense life back there. I set the man down on the flat ground, under the shelter of the cave but still in a little light. Not enough to hurt him, because the shade of the trees is still good here, but enough that if he wakes up, he won’t freak out. I wander a little and pick up some twigs, returning with a handful of sticks. Now that I have the matches, starting a fire is easy enough, and so I just sit and wait for him to wake up, watching the way the fire casts shadows in the falling darkness.

I am trapped. I can’t catch my breath. The engulfing smoke, of burning wood - the persistent loud threat of crackling - and the fiery heat in every direction disorientate me. I choke out a cry for someone. Any movement I make to get away from the fire is met with a roaring flame, a sense of futility saps my strength. There is no way out.

“Aiden!” somebody yells. I whip towards the source that has come from my right with a renewed burst of desperate hope. Shielding my dry eyes from the stinging heat, I try to see if he is nearby. My response ends up in a cough. “Aiden!” he calls again, a strangled mewl this time. I know the fire is eating him alive.

My urgency to get to him makes me kick at a towering hellish obstacle. Ember falls on me painfully but I dash through the small opening created just before a beam collapses where I was standing. He doesn’t make a sound anymore and I don’t know where he is. I try to scream for him; I try to claw my way to him in the inferno.

Gripped in the remnants of my nightmare, I snarl with clenched fists in a half-wakened state of frustration and intense need. Pain gnaws at me. Mastered by a ferocious instinct, I rush unseeing with an unnatural speed towards the seated figure, intent on devouring them.

I’ve nearly fallen asleep when the man begins to stir. He’s grunting, kicking at something in his nightmare. Then, he starts clawing at something. It’s funny, really, watching him fight the things in his dreams. How do I know he’s fighting something? Somehow, it just makes sense. I rub at my eyes, staring down at the fire again, when the man starts growling. It’s the growl of a predator, deep and throaty. I know that sound; I’ve made it before. As I look up at him, he is racing towards me, teeth bared, eyes reflecting the moonlight.

He crashes into me, giving me little to no time to move. My back’s against the ground; his teeth are at my throat. My hand’s go straight for his own throat, wondering if I could choke him out. It takes every ounce of strength I have to push him away from me. It’s surprising how strong he is in this condition. Over his shoulder, the moon gives the cave an eerie glow, casting silver shadows on the clunky rocks outside the mouth of the cave. We aren’t sitting in the moonlight but in the darkness.

If I could only reach that moonlight. The thought that runs through my mind confuses me. What would the light from the moon do for me? My instinct hasn’t failed me yet today, and so I give the man once strong shove and push him off me, cussing. If I’d known he would attack me when the sun set, I would have left him behind. Panting, I run towards the opening of the cave, standing tall in the dim light.

“Wake up, you idiot, it’s just me,” I yell back at him, shivering. It’s not cold. But my body is covered in these weird bumps, bumps that itch and tingle. There’s an odd pain in my stomach, an urge to kneel down on my hands and knees, an urge to run. Is it the moonlight? Connections, Jess, make connections. Moonlight. Nocturnal. Animals. Moonlight. Werewolves. Wait, that last connection is so random that it makes perfect sense. If the man before me is a vampire, then why can’t I be a werewolf?

A sense of invincibility enshrouds me in the frenzied state. Pain doesn't register to me. I bare my fangs in retaliation at her vice-like grip on my throat and strain forward to sink them into her. The wild smell of her blood inches from my frothing mouth induces an uncontrollable urge to tear into her chest and rip out her fast beating heart for a feast. She shoves me away and I am made to slide a few steps back. The moment is enough for her to escape to the mouth of the cave and stand under the shine of a bright crescent moon. The cloudless sky backs her. Coiled to strike for a second time, I instinctively assess the situation for a split second.

She is shouting unintelligible words at me. Her features are in sharp relief as if lit by the afternoon sun, seen through my nocturnal vision. Clear blue eyes are fixed on me without fear and underline the sense she is a hardened veteran skilled in close combat; she blinks and from the minute change in expression a vulnerability is unwittingly shown. I know it is my chance to overpower her now. Her skin begins to sprout hair everywhere - I can see the fine down on her face lengthen and coarsen - her muscles ripple and twitch of their own accord like they want to grow in mass.

I tense my legs and pounce to grapple with the werewolf without any caution, relying on heightened agility and peak savagery to offset my amateur fighting moves. All I need is one bite: my saliva will seep into her nervous system and work its deadly poison.