The Girl at Camp Green Lake

Untitled Part 6

"Wake up! Wake up, Citra, please!"

My vision blurs as I blink my eyes. Smudged faces stair down at me. My eyes close again, but my breathing is rapid and shallow. Opening my eyes again, I groan and rub my aching head as gasps fly around my mind; echoing like there's nothing in there. There probably isn't.

"She's awake! I saw her eyes open for a second." a girl's voice. Light and fragile with a hint of a French accent. My eyes open once more, and this time my vision is clear. It's her. The girl with braids. I know her, but I can't remember how.

People are talking, loud one second, quiet and distant the next. I ask a question, even though I never seem to open my mouth. Wat is happening? Somehow she hears me.

She replies with a sad shake of her head, "No, you didn't make it to the Window Room."

I feel disappointed, but I have no idea what the French girl is talking about. A boy with shaggy blond hair and crystal blue eyes looks critically at me as I sit up. I rub my eyes and ask another question. Still, I can't tell what I'm saying, but everyone else hears.

The boy nods in reply to my unsaid words. A gentle, kind look has set in his eyes.

"Oh, Citra, I thought you were dead!" exclaims the French girl in a hushed tone. Her eyes are starting to water. I want to comfort her, tell her that it's going to be okay, but I don't like to lie. Anyway, how am I supposed to explain that I have no idea what's going on right now? That I don't even know who any of them are? 

"We all did," the boy with blue eyes picks at a leaf in my tangled hair and flicks it away. "You were out for days."

Days? Days since what, I want to ask. But I can't. It's like something is controlling me. Telling me what to say to these strangers.

But they're not strangers. I  know these people.

And yet I don't. Not enough to remember their names anyway.

I rub my eyes once more and slowly begin to take in my surroundings. I'm lying on a stiff mattress, and there's a thin banket crumpled up by my feet. Like I had kicked it down there in my sleep. I grunt and run my fingers through my disheveled hair. Something about this is all wrong. Just not wrong enough to scare me. The springs from the cheap mattress are piercing into my back and they aren't exactly comfortable, so I heave myself off the bed.  As I stand shakily from my lying position, my legs wobble uncertainty. The French girl rushes to my aid. "You shouldn't stand. You're still hurt." I softly nudge her away as I reply. This time I can hear bits and pieces, but not the whole thing. I can hardly bear it.

"... need to... Bryce. ... tell her... happened."

"She knows, Citra." Blue Eyes gazes at me pitifully. I hate it. I hate it so much I can barely stand it. I absolutely despise pity. And what makes it worse is that I know I'm receiving it because I've done something wrong. I've made a mistake.

I look down at myself. My feet wear black combat boots. Broken in jaded leather. They look old. Cargo pants, large and baggy, hang from my waist; held by a loosely woven plastic belt. My shirt from what I can see is all black, but on the shoulder there's a small, visible red teardrop. I frown. Something about that marking is so familiar. But I can't place my finger on it.

The chatter around the large room suddenly shatters when someone says,

"Our little hero's awake, is she?" The loud arrogant voice forcefully pushes my eyes toward its speaker. I turn my gaze to look at a lanky boy around my age striding over to us. Tall and dangerously handsome, with jet-black hair shaken and untidy sits above ruthless amber eyes. A ruby plated in gold crowns one of his ears, a silver chain dangling from the other. He looks like a prince from a story book. His gloating smirk alone is enough to catch me.

Something about him makes me feel so... helpless. Vulnerable. I hate it.

Not just a little either, so much that I can almost feel the searing hot anger rising from me like smoke off concrete. And the way he looks at me, eyes roaming my body up and down; robbing me of my individuality. Like I'm an object.

Widow wrinkles her nose at him. "Go back to where you came from, Luke. You don't belong with us."

The people beside her snicker, almost glad for the possibility of a fight. I would have to, if I wasn't so confused. I still haven't figured out who I am or why I'm here. But I feel like I am one of them. Whoever they are.

Luke tilts his head slightly. "Do you mean I don't belong in the Hunt or with your strange little group of people you have right here? Because I certainly don't mind not belonging with any of you three."

Grumbling, Widow turns her attention back to me. "Just ignore him. We have bigger problems. Citra? What's gotten into you?"

She watches me with her feline eyes. I shake my head, struggling to wake up from this dream-like state. But it's not a dream. Is it?

Widow's tail flicks sharply, and she lets out a low-pitched growl. Since when did she have a tail? My eyes begin to water as I clear my dry, dusty throat.

"Citra?" A cold hand on my shoulder. I whip around. Cerulean is staring at me, his worried eyes glistening like blue diamonds.

I giggle. Reach my hand up to play with his golden locks. "You look like Squid sorta."

He frowns, as doubt overcomes his expression. Looks at Widow. What's wrong, I want to ask. Nothing's wrong. Everything is just grand. I suddenly feel the urge to kiss him. I examine his face; his smooth lips, curly blonde hair. Long see-through eyelashes. I let out another breathless giggle. An agitating notion rushes through my mind. Cerulean. What a strange name. But my next thought disturbs me even more.

Who are these people?

I know them, but I don't. I'm so confused. I'm connected to these people, I belong here. But if so, then why can't I remember anything? Why do I feel like I'm actually somewhere else?

The next day, as I sit in the shade of the six-foot deep hole I've dug, I wonder about that dream. It puzzles me, more than anything. I remember how Cerulean looked at me, the fear in his heart leaking through his eyes. It was just a dream, I tell myself. But I'd felt pain. And why do I still feel so sickly? I recall Widow screaming for help.

"She's been poisoned!" The girl had yelled. Like she cared for me. Maybe she did. Same as Cerulean. Maybe.

How I know Widow and Cerulean names, I have no idea. And right before I fall asleep the next night, I think about the crimson teardrop on my shirt.