Ezra
I've heard lots of screaming before- the panicked sound of a mother whose children are being taken away, the desperate cry of a man watching his lover with a gun pressed into her temple, the mournful weeping of a father finding out his daughter isn't coming home. Every scream is different, a work of art painted by a million individual fingers and unimaginable colors.
The sound that surrounds me in this moment can never blend perfectly with the unique shades of the painting. It is another color thrown in the mix, haunting reds and deafening blacks.
This scream is pain. Immeasurable pain.
The cold of a table seeps through my uniform, and I tug my wrists upward before I try to open my eyes.
"Oh, stop making such a fuss," a calm, cold voice says to my left, and the scream is muffled. "You're going to wake up Ezra. Let the poor thing rest. I'm trying to get the bullet out of your leg."
I let my wrists fall back on the table. Like lifting them up did me any good; the metal restraints stopped them from going too far. When my skin hits the table once again, it touches something hot and thick. Honey?
My heart races. Nope, not honey. It's blood. My blood?
I listen to a clock ticking somewhere in the room, masked almost by the muffled, helpless cries of whoever is being tortured next to me. A soft hum fills the rest of the empty space, joined by a suctioning sound. It reminds me of someone drinking out of a straw when the cup is empty.
"How much longer until his anesthesia wears off, doctor?" the same female voice from before asks, and the sound of heels clicking joins the motley assortment of noise.
"Any time now, Miss President," a male voice answers.
The sharp memory of where I was before rushes back in the form of a weight crushing into my chest. The president shot me. Square in the chest. Sarah lays beside me, screaming with colors of shadows.
I open my eyes, then. I made Sarah a promise. Playing dead isn't how I keep us alive until fifty.
"Speak of the devil," Murano says, and her shape appears beside me. I blink a few times in an attempt to clear the blurriness, but it's useless. Without my glasses, I can't see anything.
Murano stretches a hand out towards me and lets it come to rest on my forehead. I jerk my head away, but the quick movement sends a wave of nausea and blinding pain through me.
"How are you feeling?" she asks, and to my surprise, concern fills her voice. "You're lucky that I'm a terrible shot, Ezra. Two more inches to the right, and we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Am I supposed to say thank you?" I growl. The words eat their way up my throat, sending new pain crashing through my lungs.
"That's exactly what I expect," she says. "So hurry up, and say it."
I scrunch my nose up at her and squint. It doesn't clear my vision, but it's the angriest face I can make when every inch of me is on fire.
"You can go to-"
Sarah's scream cuts me off, but the message gets across. Murano grips my chin with her ice shards of fingers and squeezes.
"Funny, because that's exactly where I plan to send you," she hisses. Her nails dig into my skin, threatening to crush my jaw.
The suctioning stops, and another blurry shape joins Murano. This one is also white but looms over her small figure. He holds something out towards me, and I tense up as my glasses slide over my face.
YOU ARE READING
The Island
Science Fiction"This is The Island, a prison designed for minors like me- too young to be executed, too old to be reformed, and too much of a stain on humanity to let exist. It was 'the answer' to the growing crime rate resulting from a world that was falling apar...
