The Island: Act One

ACT ONE - 2: Marooned

Stephen stumbles through the forest as though he had just learned to walk. He jolts and falters on his feet like a drunkard. Holding his head still with his left hand, while his right guides him forward; gripping tree trunks and plants for stability. He trips over roots hidden among bushes and high grass. After the third fall he lays still. Staring up into a gap between the trees, the blue sky stares down upon him. A glare from the sun lighting him like a man on centre stage. His eyes spin wildly. The cut on his shin has reopened and fresh blood begins to slowly dampen the stained jeans.

Once more he rises to his feet, as though on nothing but instinct. His body looks empty. His soul has left and it is a vacant vessel that staggers like a zombie through the forest. Stephen sees nothing. He hears nothing. If he is still in there, he is not controlling himself from here.

With a jolt Stephen bursts awake. His feet and arms kicking outwards, seeming to wake from some sort of nightmare...or waking up to one. He lies by the bank of a small pond. The water is clear and a couple of metres deep. The rocky surface shines clear through the water glistening like crystals in reflection of the sun. The bank is a small patch of grass surrounding the pond, where it quickly meets the treeline surrounding it. The sun is still piercing through the jungle, but the trees cover most of the pond and Stephen's side of the bank in a cool shade.

After he finishes his visual tour of this new part of the jungle, he has found himself in. He looks down to himself. Registering his body for the first time. He is wet. More accurately; he realises he is drying. His clothes are not drenched but still very damp. His hair also shares the same diagnosis, while his skin has dried but is wrinkled from exposure to water. Turning to the ground between him and the pond, he spies the trodden grass and the pushed mud from dragging friction. Clearly, he had thrown himself; or more likely: collapsed into the river and after quite some time dragged himself back out of it.

"Ah what the hell." Muttering to himself, as he pulls his injured leg up to his chest and rolls up the jean again. Gritting his teeth and growling through the pain, as the tight jean pushes against the open wound; squeezing more blood through the cut. His hand relaxes and his teeth release, as the cut is exposed. Seeing it fully for the first time, Stephen's eyes widen in uneasiness. It is as though the act of seeing the cut has made the pain worse. I see into my shin. A deep crevasse of red. Layers of red, going at least two centimetres deep. The cut itself is about ten centimetres long. I swallow vomit as I see the cut running down the front of my shin.

Sighing with future regret, Stephen uses his heels and palms to slide backwards and slowly into the still pond.

"Sweet Jesus." He stammers as his body reaches the chill water. The pool ripples and tsunamis over bank. Stephen slides further in until only his head remains above the water. A deep red seeps from his shin, drawing the path from him entering the water. The water level calms and splashes over Stephens body, as his clothes puff up from the water. He circles his arms to keep himself above water, as he awkwardly spits water from his mouth. Breathing quickly as though struggling to stay afloat and cold, he looks down to his shin. "This probably wasn't necessary," he chuckles to himself looking around the pool stupidly.

Awkwardly he grabs his injured leg and rolls the jean up his leg once more, gritting his teeth through the pain. He lets the leg hang in water some more, before pushing himself back towards the bank of the pond.

Sliding back up the grass, water falls off the cut and diluted blood seeps from the wound. Taking off his jacket and shirt and ripping a sleeve to tie around the cut. It is foolhardy and amateurish but will solve the problem for the time being.

Putting his jacket back on, he removes his belongings from the inside pockets. Keys, wallet, a phone – which he checks to see is working. It doesn't respond to any attempt, so he flings it to the side with a sigh. Next, he removes a colt cobra and places it beside him not particularly reacting to the gun as he withdraws it. Searching a final pocket that is empty, he drops his hands onto his lap and takes a deep breath. Looking around the pond bank and up at the over hanging trees blocking the sun.