They have kept me here as their prisoner for roughly a week; the days are difficult to separate here. Everything seems to be moving in harmony and in their own pace, as if there was no such thing as time here.
Their base camp is located at the heart of the island, that much I know. They have manipulated a series of caves, that are grouped in the mountain sides that snake under the earth and intertwine with one another, to their will for protection, shelter and by other means. The small cave I am in acts as a makeshift jail, with no cells and no bars, just rocks jutting from the walls and floor. They've tied other prisoners to these massive spear-like stones, forcing them to stand no matter how tired they are, and only give them small amounts of water to keep them alive so that they may suffer. Unlike those tortured souls, I am fed at least two growingly descent meals a day that consist of corn, wheat bread, rice and fish.
They keep me tied to a smaller, smooth rock unlike the others too; the rock I am strapped too has far kinder edges than the harshly jagged rocks of the fellow prisoners who have suffered many open sores and wounds from the stones. They also have me located closer towards the front, where the light still touches when the sun shines highly in the blue cloudless abyss, not in the dampness and darkness of the caves. For some reason, they are keeping me well attained in living and making sure I don't do much of what they don't plan on me preforming, like the constant crying and shivering and refusing to sleep.
The weather here is different than home too, the wind is howling so fiercely it has the strength to knock down towering trees that nearly toppled over a guard and make the waves on the distant shore thunder with the clouds like they're right next to my ear. The rain is the worst. It pelts you when it starts, like a trickle, and then grows more immensely until it pounds against your bare skin until it turns red. The people who live here don't seem too hurt or afraid by the weather here like I am, the guards simply stand there, like statues, unmoving, as the rain bounces off their leather hard skin with a defining smack.
I hug my Betty Dolly that Grandmother gave me for my birthday only a few months ago. Strange, to think that only yesterday, or perhaps was it already a week? Yes, just a single week ago Father's ship, a magnificent mass called The Time Traveler, was bound for the ocean on quest. We, and another equally rich family, parted from our safe homes on shore to venture the horizon, to discover the sea for ourselves in a way books and words simply could not compare too.
I don't remember what year it is, when I woke up in the makeshift infirmary my head was wrapped in cloth form my dress stained red, nor the exact date. I cannot recall nothing more that is fairly recent other than the fact that I am twelve years old, my name is Ariana, and my family has been either killed or captured by savages.
*****
The morning sun flew across the soft blue sky, streaked by purple, orange and pink tinted clouds, and chased the midnight moon that glowed yellowed and small with the thousands of sparkling diamond-like stars away. The birds chirped lively songs to the humming trees and flew so freely with the gentle breeze that lightly brushed the hair from my face. The freshly laid dew hung heavily on the plant life, weighing some down until a doe or her foul came to drink the sweetly flavored water.
The ropes that bound me to the stone wore sores and burns into my pale skin, making me moan whenever I moved too swiftly attempting to shift into a more comforting position. I have had lost track of how many days have passed when I arrived here and decided not to care, after all, what does such a silly thing like time mean when you're in a world like this? It means nothing. Time doesn't exist here, with these people and on this island, but age never fails to show itself uninvited. Yesterday the guards finally realized what the mysterious cause of a foul and displacing oder was; it was a man sentenced to death, for unknown reasons, who had been rotting and long since remembered in a far corner of the cave where even the moss refuses to spawn.
That's another thing to note about all the prisoners here; the color of black paint they wear shows how long is their sentence. That mans corpse they dragged out yesterday was completely black and covered with welts from beatings and open sores and wounds filled with maggots. I, to my dismay, have no trace of black paint on me and it is unknown, like everything else, for how long I will remain here. I see the looks they give me though, looks of despise or quick glares of something else I didn't understand. Maybe it was that I was white, with fire orange hair and fast green eyes, and they were obviously natives with their rugged appearance, way of living, their tanned leathery skin and oddly cropped hair. But natives to what? They weren't like any of the Indians I've learned about in school or have heard news of wealthy rulers enslaving.
They speak in this weird language that can only to be described just as that: weird. I have studied the pronunciations of tribal languages and are familiar with some of the Indian vocabulary, but this stands for no reason here. I try and follow with what they say, but could not keep up nor make out the signs they curled their hands into.
It's hopeless. No one will help me. No one will ever find me. I will die here. I am alone.
****
Today I was reminded how lucky I am that they allow me to write once a day, everyday. I had run out of the strange charcoal that I use to write with and tried asking for more, but apparently that is completely unacceptable for any prisoner, especially me.
"Hey! Excuse me, Sir?" I had begun shouting at one of the statue guards, "I beg your pardon, but I have run out of charcoal!"
He turned to face me, his squinted eyes dulled as his face twisted into a menacing glare while his lips parted to reveal jagged teeth, "Ne!" he barked, "Ne fara teh jubra scho-no! Thala me shwan a le ranca jubra trives!"
Or something alone those lines were hissed out of his terrible looking mouth. I had no idea, his horrible slur on his words made them blend together and seem all the more alien, that and the only part I understood was "Ne" was no and I was not to be speaking to him. He stampeded over to me, picked me up by me hair and shook me, chanting the words into my face with reeking breath.
