The Blood King's Love

Eleven

I don't remember how long I was under the care of the nurses in that cot, most likely because I was unconscious half the time and spacing out the other half. When I fell asleep I had nightmares. When I woke up I would faint. I didn't look myself in the mirror since the boy came to visit me, but I felt my face, and the pimples had gone down. The redness of my skin started to clear up, and my body wasn't rejecting food anymore. They had me get up and pace to strengthen myself. Even my thigh wound was getting better; they were treating it and my poisoned body at the same time.

One time I woke up and no one was there. Which was odd. Either a nurse was attending to me, or the boy or any other guard was sitting in the corner supervising me. Especially since I was able to walk better again, they didn't dare leave me by myself. That day I assumed they had given me a sleeping drug, and I woke up earlier than expected.

I got up immediately and wobbled to the door. It was locked.

I went to one of the cupboards. They had a collection of needles and pins. Not as convenient as a key, but still efficient; when I was younger I used to lock myself in my room and practice unlocking it with whatever resources I had. We had at least two books about the art of escapism back at home. Strangely specific, but what can I say? None of the books father brought back from the city were ever elementary.

I haven't picked any locks in a while, and it takes me a couple of tries until I can pry open the first one. The next three get gradually easier to open. I hear the satisfying click of the last lock opening, place my hand on to the knob, and hesitate.

I have absolutely no idea what to expect. But I can't just sit here and be idle. I shove the door open.

My heart drops.

I'm underground?

There's a thin, thin hallway made of dirt and mud and sand. To my left, a long pathway with seemingly no end. To my right, the same. All the nurses, my old cell guard--they must've walked miles to get here. I check around for other doors like mine and find nothing. There's no source of light, except for the light in my room.

The gears in my brain are churning. This isn't a regular holding place, like my cell. It must be for special inmates only. They might think I'm unstable or insane. I did willingly drink poison, after all. And I was in critical condition. I suppose this is how they treat demented prisoners. But still, it's odd.

I'm barefoot, so walking on the dirt floor isn't pleasant--but these past few days haven't been pleasant either, so I digress. Weakly, I start on the pathway to the right.

I walk.

And walk.

And walk.

It felt like I had been walking for forever, but there was no end in sight. The only source of light was from my room, and the farther I got from it the worse I could see. Frustrated, I whirl around to head back to my room--but I turned too fast and suddenly that I trip, falling flat on my face.

When my head hits the ground, I hear a soft clank.

That's not the noise dirt usually makes.

I bolt upright, wincing a little, and my hands dart to the area where I hit my head. It feels like regular dirt, but I start digging. Eventually I hit a block of wood or something--I can't see it well since the light from my room is still a ways away. Is this a door? I start feeling around for anything else, like a handle or a hinge. Eventually my hands grasp onto a knob. I twist it and pull--then I realize it probably opens outwards, and I push. The door weighs a few pounds, so when I push, it opens rather quickly.

I look down to see another level of the same thin, dirt hallway, but this time, I can see a light source. The fall down doesn't look toobad, so I lower myself, strong leg first, and gently land. I walk a few feet to find that the pathway stops, and my feet land on a flatter surface--it's rock. I look around and realize I'm in a cave. I can't help but get excited--we never had anything like this back at my hometown. It's not the ones I've read about, with scriptures on the walls and stalactites growing on the ceiling, but it holds my fascination nonetheless. It's not too small--round, easily can hold over one hundred people, and the most interesting about it is the small pond in the center- extending from it is a small stream of water, the tiniest river I've ever seen.

My eyes follow the creek, but it doesn't end inside the cave. The light source I had seen, it's an opening in the cave. The closer I get to the opening, the faster I recognize that I can hear voices.

Oh my god.

My heart starts thumping. What if I'm found out?

I'm tiptoeing towards it when I realize that these are the voices of children.

I don't know if that's better or worse.

I get to the entrance. The creek I was following goes out into a larger one, about 6 feet wide. I can't see an end to it, but the water is clearer and deeper when it was inside the cave. There isn't much to the left or right. It seems like I'm in the middle of the woods. Tall trees loosely border the water; the trunks are thin and the bark is peeling like paper. It seems to be early morning, or a safer estimate, daytime.

I can hear laughter.

Peeking out as discreetly as possible, I can see the source of the voices. It's four children, about twenty feet away from me. I can't tell the genders or ages, but they're small, especially the one walking on the log that extends across the creek.

Wait.

Uh. That's not safe.

These dumbass kids. If they're not careful, they might fall into that creek and die.

The kid on the log is taking very reluctant steps, and the others seem to be cheering him on. Is he being pressured into doing this? From here I really can't tell.

I decide to take a step out and hide behind a tree so they don't see me. Suddenly, the kid on the log stops in the middle of his path. He turns around and gestures to the others to help him, or something. Whatever he's asking for they're not complying, so he turns back around and trips.

Uh oh.

He doesn't fall off, but he's hugging the log for dear life. I get closer and closer, and see that he's starting to sob. He can't be more that seven years old. The other kids must be three years his senior.

The other kids stop laughing, and seem to be a little concerned, but none of them try to help. They just shout "Get up!" or "Why are you such a chicken!" After a bit, the small boy looks determined, and finally tries to get up.

But he's getting up too fast. And he's going to fall. I can feel it.

On instinct I run towards them as fast as I can. I bet I'm supposed to be in pain, but the adrenaline in my system has me ignoring it completely.

In seconds, the child is falling, and I'm sprinting in his direction, hoping to get there in time. His scream gets muffled by his splash in the water.

I jump in after him.