Exiled

TWENTY-SIX

I wake with a jolt.

Images from the escape from Metralta assault my brain in an instant, pounding loud within my head. I gasp, squeeze my eyes shut, and press my hands firmly against my temples in an attempt to force them out of me.

A searing pain rips through my left arm, competing headstrong against my aching brain for my attention.

Bang. Hudson. Glass. Wreck. Pain. Rhett. Broken. Home. Needle.

The images swirl and crash against each other and between the pain in my arm and the pain in my head I am completely and utterly prepared to die than live with them for another second.

"Dallas! Hey!" a panicked voice ripples through the murky swirling abyss within me, guiding me like a beacon of hope. A firm pair of hands gently shakes my shoulders. "Dallas! Please stop screaming Dallas, you're okay..." the voice, like velvet and fresh honey beckons to me, soothing me and the thrashing memories within me.

I muster the courage to open my eyes and close my mouth—though I did not realize I had even made a sound. I swallow hard in a vain attempt to suppress the lump growing in my throat as the memories search for another way to torment me—to taunt me relentlessly.

Deep green eyes peer down at me from overhead, eyes filled with angst and uneasiness. I'm mesmerized by their depth, and the way they seem to convey their own secret language meant just for me.

Soft brown hair falls lazily across his forehead, and his tanned skin is stretched taunt over his perfect squared jaw. He reaches down and caresses my cheek hesitantly, as if he is afraid of breaking me. He sits down next to me, and I track his every move, not wanting to lose sight of this perfect man.

He forces a smile, and for the first time I notice the scabbed split in his lip, dried blood in his hair, and his soiled and tattered shirt. His eyes seem swollen, and I can see the faintest hint of purple beginning to form around them. Even banged up Rhett is a marvelous splendor to behold.

"We're leaving soon Dallas," he says softly, his eyes locked firmly with mine.

"Where are we?" I croak. My throat is sore and scratchy, and I fight to force the words past the lump that has taken up residency there.

He reaches for my hand, and I wince as he grasps it gently. When I look down, I see my arm is bandaged and resting securely in a sling. Hmmm...

"Gwen and Edmund led us to one of their rebel bunkers. It wasn't far from the crash, but it's hidden within the woods." He rubs small circles on my hand with his thumb as he talks. "They went out to watch for Gordon and Jacob. We finally got ahold of them, and they'll be here in less than an hour," he pauses as his eyes lighten and his grin becomes more sincere. "I was afraid you wouldn't wake up in time and I would have to carry you again," he says mockingly.

A strangled laugh bubbles from somewhere within me. "That is if I can manage to walk."

I silently scan myself up and down best I can for the first time since the crash. My stomach turns as I take in the sight of the countless dark blue bruises beginning to form on my bare legs. I wiggle my toes and attempt to bend my knees, and though painful, find no loss of mobility thankfully. My abdomen is littered with tiny cuts and scrapes, and a large bruise is forming on my left hip, peering brazenly over the top of the shorts I'm wearing.

Which are not mine I mentally note to myself.

My left arm is incapacitated and wrapped from hand to well above my elbow with gauze. I explore the range of motion in my functioning arm and am relieved to find it unscathed. I'm afraid to see how my face looks, or my back for that matter.