Safe Harbor

| 19 |

"I can't believe it's been a bloody month already!" Marco exclaims to me, before I can quiet him.

He'd always been an early riser, and being on the island hadn't changed that. Faint hues of purple and pink filtered into the open door of our makeshift hut, shading Marco's face as he looked at me with an excitement that never seemed to end. He and I sat up against the sturdy grass walls, as we'd done almost every day since we'd arrived. It was too early for the humidity to truly set in, and crisp air entered the hut, cooling us down a little. It had taken me a little while to get used to eternally sunny skies and warm weather-- after all, I was from England. Every morning, I awoke to the sound of birds chirping and waves slowly lapping against the shore. The smell of saltwater comforted me; it reminded me so much of home. If I closed my eyes, it was like we were still home, in Bournemouth...

But this wasn't Bournemouth, and even I couldn't pretend that it was anymore. It had been a month since we'd arrived, even longer since Marco and I had left home to begin with. With each passing day, I found it harder and harder to remember the small details of home. Every night, I tried to visualize home, tried to picture everything as it was, only to come to a harrowing realization, last night.

I simply couldn't remember certain things anymore.

What colour were the walls of my bedroom? Was the clock above my bed or above my desk? Was my bookcase made of mahogany or oak?

The realization frightened me. It hadn't even been that long to begin with; how could I have forgotten all these things so quickly? The memories I held dearly were fading, slowly but surely, and I didn't know how to stop it.

"Can you ever stop talking?" Pierre grumbles, interrupting my thoughts. He shuffles around, before finally making to sit up in the tiny hut we still all shared, leaning his back against the wooden frame looking extremely annoyed.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine," Marco replies, cheekily, a grin stretched across his face.

His familiar scowl is already deeply etched into his face. "No, it is not a good morning," he exclaims. "Not when you're already positively ruining my day by running your obnoxiously loud mouth, waking everyone up!"

By this point, Nico and Jean-Luc are sitting up as well, rubbing the sleep from their eyes tenderly.

Marco refuses to be angered or even annoyed by this typical response from Pierre. "Er, mate, hate to break it to you, but it looks like you're the one who did that this time," he says, motioning to the other boys.

Pierre glares at him so fiercely it chills even me to the bone, although I'm not the one on the receiving end of it.

"I think we all need to... how you say... calm down," Nico suggests, his voice drowsy but firm.

"Agreed," Jean-Luc continues. "Marco is right. It has been an entire month. "We need to learn how to get along, because we're going to be here awhile."

"You're wrong," Pierre snaps. "We're getting out of here as soon as possible, as soon as the war--"

"The war isn't going to end tomorrow, Pierre!" Marco rebuts, shaking his head profusely. "And if you ask me, it's not going to end for a while, alright?" His voice lowers, but the intensity remains. "Pierre, mate, you have to stop treating us and everyone else around here like we're your enemies." He motions to the rest of us, then. "It has been a month, and you're still treating us like we're strangers you could give a rat's ass about!"

Pierre's eyes narrow coldly. "I don't know any of you." He pulls his coat closer around him, a reminder of his wealthy status. "And I don't associate with commoners."