Marked For the Kill (On Hold)

Chapter 4

Marked For the Kill

Chapter 4

I know the pure and utter terror that wakes one from the darkest of nightmares. The fear paralyzes one, and all that they can do is stare with wide eyes, focused on some far point in the distance, while their slow mind pieces together what they know to be true and what their imagination formulated.

This is what I fell as my sleepy eyes blink to focus into wakefulness. At first I panic; I am not at home in the safety of the worn quilts on my bed, and I wondered what has happened to my mother and Anemone. Then I remember.

The fire.

The blood.

The pain.

The Marking.

My cheek is numb against the cool earth under me. I look around at my surroundings. I am in an earth made room that is dimly illuminated by an oil lamp on a shelf embedded in the wall. There is a low bed in the corner of the room covered in a faded red quilt. An old, dusty mirror hangs on the wall opposite of the bed, and there are two doors in the room.

Other than those few items, the room is bare. There is a door in the wall across from where I lay, but before I even try to reach it, I see that it has a lock on it.  I would bet anything that it is locked from the outside to keep me from escaping.  I try the other door which opens easily to a small and extremely simply bathroom.  The shower had a sliding glass door as opposed to a curtain.  I suppose that the Creatures take all precautions that they can to assure that the Marked can't kill themselves before the real fun starts.

I slowly raise myself up by my arms, and find that my achy muscles protested, so I guess that I have been asleep for at least a day. The pain in my shoulder throbs, and it snap me into my senses.  I narrow my eyes, and my mind switched into survival mode.

"Where are you?" I mutter at myself under my breath.

I remember the boy that had taken me from the woods when I passed out. Where has he taken me?

I have to get out of here.

I walk on shaky legs to the door.  I grab the metal knob and jerk it to the side, trying in vain to open it.

I get on my knees to get a better look at the lock on the door.  This is useless; that door is not going to be unlocked without a key. I throw my hands against the door in distress and frustration. I fell like a wild, caged animal, and I try to kick in the door and bang my hands against the wood until blood runs down my knuckles.

I hold my hands up to my face and stare, transfixed on the dark red crawling down my arm. For the first time, I let the truth really dawn on me.

I am Marked.

I am an offering.

I am as good as dead.

I scramble to my feet and clumsily run to the mirror. With blood-stained hands, I peel away the clothing over my shoulder and stare at the Mark.

The skin on my right shoulder blade is puckered up pink, like skin does when it is branded. Black color is already beginning to be drawn into the skin like ink appearing over parchment.

I watch as the black fills in, replacing the pink pucker, and creating a permanent black tattoo. The Mark is in the form of an elaborately detailed sun that has a tribal-like look.

The center is made of arches and angles, swirls, dots, stars, and other odd patterns. They are encased inside a circle with broken segments, letting some patterns escape its hold. Small triangles inside of larger ones jut out from the center in differing lengths like rays of sunlight. When I move, they seem to ripple, creating the illusion that they are on fire, tongues of black flame licking at my skin. It would be strangely beautiful, if it didn't mean certain death.

The door is suddenly slammed open. I have been to preoccupied to hear the bolt being unlocked. How stupid I am to miss this chance at an escape. It may be my only one.

Still, I must jump a good three feet in the air from being startled.  When I look for who is entering the room, I recognize them as the boy, the one who brought me here. He is the reason that I am going to die. I hate him;  I wish that he would die on  the spot of some freak happening like the ground that he stood on opening and sucking him down. Then he can return to Hell, where he and his kind belong.

"What do you want," my voice comes out much more steadily than I expect considering that I cringe with my back to the wall as if I can disappear into it.

The boy just smirks and doesn't answer my question.  I feel my hands begin to shake in anger at his blase attitude.

"Damn it! What do you want with me!" I scream at him. He only looks mildly amused, raising one of his eyebrows.

"Relax. I just came to give you this," he raises a basket full of soft bread, mouth-watering cheeses, and fruit so healthy that the skin is still shinny even in the low light. "You must be starving." His voice is deep and warm and sexily seductive.  It is totally unfit for the monster that speaks it.

"I am being offered up to be killed by you, Creature;  food is the least of my worries. I am going to die while you continue to hurt others like me, so quite frankly, you can take all you so called "help" for me and shove it," I growl at him.

His face hardens, and shadows fall over his gem-like eyes.

"Fine," he tosses the basket on the ground and throws a second one with it that is full of clothes. A few of the fruits spill out when they land, but most of the food stays safely in the basket.

Like I am going to use or eat anything that they give to me.

"We're not all the same you know," he says with a wicked smile, and with that, he turns and leaves the room chuckling softly as he goes, locking the door behind him.

The whole conversation takes only a couple of minutes, but the tightening feeling in my chest suggests that I've had a lifetime of misery and despair.

What does he mean, 'We're not all the same?' Of course they are all the same! All they are is evil and cruel with hearts as black as tar.  I guess by his smirk that he was just teasing me and trying to get to me.

I wonder what my mother and my sister, Anemone, are doing now. Have they accepted that I am not coming out of the woods and that I have been Marked? My fingers run over the charms around my neck, my tigress, flower, and stone, all strung on the leather tie.

My only piece of home, of safety, and of myself. I decide then that I must stay true to myself no matter what these beasts do to me. I will be defiant in death to the very end.

But instead I burst into tears. Who am I kidding?  I am not resigned to my own death.  I want to live, to escape, and to be safe. But that is not an option right now, so I let the sobs begin to rack my body as I slump, defeated, down the wall and to the ground.