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Him, wrapping his arms around me.
Saving me from the fall.
Throwing me to prevent me from being crushed.
Sacrificing himself for me.
I suck in a breath and shiver, gazing around me.
Should I run? He’s here, right here. He could lock me up, throw me in the pit, or tie me up again. Do I want to risk it? I should run … I should definitely run.
For a moment, our eyes connect … but then he collapses.
First to his knees. Then his hands. His face hits the dirt, and his eyes close.
Silence.
A sharp pang pokes me in the stomach.
My brain is telling me to run … but my heart … my heart bleeds with guilt.
I can’t leave him there. I just can’t.
If I run now, he’ll probably die.
And even though my mother always said I should be my own savior because no one else will be, and that I should always choose myself over anyone else, I push myself to do it.
No matter how hard my brain tells me to stop thinking about it and just run, run for safety and find another way off the island … I can’t.
I simply can’t let another human being die if I can prevent it. Even if it means saving the bad guy. He saved me.
So I get up from the ground and stumble toward him, forcing myself to keep moving toward him, the man who captured me and kept me as a pet …
Toward ruin.
But I face it with pride.
I grasp his heavy arms and lift them over my shoulder, gathering the inhuman strength I need to carry him away from here. I already know my feeble muscles won’t be enough to get him to safety, let alone patch him up.
But I don’t care.
I don’t care if I can’t because I will.
I will do this.
I have to.
I must.
Because he saved me.
And now it’s my turn.
“C’mon, Jules!” I scream at myself as I force myself to walk with him hanging around my shoulders. I push and push, but his body only moves an inch at a time.
And I’m already dead beat by the time I’ve moved ten steps.
But I’m not a quitter.
Not on my life.
So I keep pushing, keep dragging him along until my whole body is covered in sweat and his in mud. Until my muscles feel as though they’re about to tear and my bones feel like they’re going to snap. And still, I push on.
To the edge of the scorched ground away from imminent danger.
Where the green grass meets the blackened earth … and then I collapse under his weight.
I’m tired, so tired.
I can’t move.
Can’t even fight to get up from underneath him.
So I lie here and stare at the tiny plucks of grass and take in a whiff of their scent.
It reminds me of home.
Of resting and taking naps.
Maybe I should.
Don’t give up now, Juliet.
It’s too soon.
You’re too young.
You haven’t seen the world yet.
Haven’t lived enough to know when time ends.
You need to see. Feel. Touch. Taste. Witness.
You need to find that perfect habitat filled with beautiful creatures and plants.
Throw eggs at that annoying neighbor’s home, who’s always searching through your trash looking for ways to report you.
Dance at your boss’s wedding after you shoved three pieces of cake into your mouth.
Go on blind dates and kiss that random guy you don’t even like but who has a great ass.
Find the man of your dreams and have babies with him, two, maybe three.
Grow out your gray hair and sit in front of the television, remembering the good life.
The life where you were loved.
Where you were deeply in love.
Where you had … real love.
Go on … for love and all that it entails.
Go on.
I force my eyes to open.
Blinking a couple of times, I gather all the strength I can muster and crawl out from underneath Lock.
Groaning, I turn around and go to him. I roll his body over and check his pulse with two fingers. It’s still there … but faint. I have to get him to wake up.
But how?
I do the only thing I can think of and smack him in the face. Not too hard, but enough to shake some sense into him.
Still, my hand lands harder than expected, and I suck in a breath, uttering, “Shit …”
Suddenly, he groans.
My eyes light up as I watch him struggle to regain consciousness.
“C’mon, Lock. Wake up,” I say, but he keeps his eyes closed.
A small rope is wrapped around his body … with a leather flask attached to it. I tug it off the rope and open the lid, checking the contents by dabbing some on my finger and licking it.
It’s water.
I open his mouth and pour some inside.
He coughs and spits it out, but his eyelids part too.
“Lock …” I mutter. “Drink.”
I pour a tiny bit into his mouth, and finally, he swallows it down, followed by a groan.
