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. Panic seizes me, and I’m up and running away from the gentle rocking of water too close by. 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 cold. I don’t want to be cold. I need to find fire.
That’s when the puzzle jams together. I am in prison. I’m in prison for burning things. People sleeping in houses with their goldfish and cliché photo frames. This is The Island, and suddenly, the water doesn’t seem as scary as it should.
***
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.
“All six of them are placed at equal intervals 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 birds do their jobs, and we will see everything we need.”
“This doesn’t feel right.”
“This is the only option we have left.”
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. Panic seizes me, and I’m up and running away from the gentle rocking of water too close by. 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 cold. I don’t want to be cold. I need to find fire.
That’s when the puzzle jams together. I am in prison. I’m in prison for burning things. People sleeping in houses with their goldfish and cliché photo frames. This is The Island, and suddenly, the water doesn’t seem as scary as it should.
***
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.
“All six of them are placed at equal intervals 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 birds do their jobs, and we will see everything we need.”
“This doesn’t feel right.”
“This is the only option we have left.”
