Escaping The Redbirds

Chapter 1

 For a moment, time simply stopped. The wind was weak and mournful, the grass was swaying with the lonely breeze. I looked around me as giggles echoed in my throat before they spread into the thick, foggy air. Flaxen coloured strands tickle me as the now violent wind pushes my unbrushed hair in front of my dry face. I breathe steadily as the corners of my mouth form an uneven smirk. The juniper grass beneath me caresses my ankles as it moves with the harsh wind. Yet my heels are soaked, filled with cuts and bruises and tiny bits of dirt-covered stone.

My dark green trousers are covered in half-dried mud while they sway with the breeze. I can clearly see the rips in my white shirt and I can clearly feel that I am cold. Yet I do not care. I look around once more. This hill dies a little more every day.

Deep down, I wanted to be broken, to be different, to escape the norms through any way possible. Being normal is a spine-chilling and bloodcurdling and terrifying monster. You're forgotten... nobody will love you the second you die because you never had any real friends or faithful lovers or family that actually cares about you. You need something special about you so that you fit in.

When someone is 'normal', they become outcasts. Nobody wants to go near them because they've seen all their tricks and heard all their stories. They sit alone while the 'special' ones are surrounded by people. Humans are frail, brittle and bitter. They will leave you for another like you're some kind of expendable resource. Truth is, you are. Why do you think we have wars with people? We are dumb, and in great supply.

As I keep thinking, I lay down on the soaked and tepid green carpet this hill has to offer, my back slowly getting colder and more humid with every second I stay here. This is one of the sensations that please me most; rain or wetness. It's a beautiful feeling since you can imagine that you're swimming in a refreshing pool or soaking in a deep, cold puddle. As I imagine that the cherry tree behind me is filled with its delicious, slightly sour fruits, I can almost feel their taste on my dry tongue. I imagine that the river in the valley still has clean and clear water which you would be able to sip from when you are thirsty and bathe in when you are dirty. Filthy...

I take a long breath as I look down. As I look down at the now pitiful source of water. It's surprisingly pretty for a place in which 12 lost their lives. Their crimson blood is blending into the muddy stream, gently starting to turn a pretty shade of maroon and finally, a sad and dull umber. The river is contaminated. Both with pieces of their uniforms, and of their filthy bodies. Behind the blood, there is just black and small shards of pale pink; the gunpowder my "friends" tried to steal and their scrawny fingers, all cut off separately, laying neatly beside the torrent of water and the long emerald grass about 50 feet beneath me. The wind blows harsher and the river flows faster, taking their gentle sides away in one furious motion.

I inspect the area as the first cold raindrop falls onto my shivering red nose. The huge colourful sun starts to set, and I get up to start walking the five miles I need to get to the base. We lost 12 today, truly a so-called tragedy. As I walk past the river, I can smell iron in the air. It disgusts me that their putrified bodies can still bother me. I keep walking and as I do so, I glanced at the road a little.

I tread on a path which is bumpy and rugged, the small red pebbles on the road poke through my worn out shoes making me uncomfortable, yet it does not ruin this pleasant atmosphere. I'm not saying that I feel pleased, I'm saying that this is a pleasant sensation. I keep almost tripping with all these potholes in the way. They're filled with a sad coffee-like tinted water which is in its turn, filled with dried, shrivelled, dead leaves. There is little grass on the road, but the tufts that are unfortunate enough to be there, are malnourished, ironically just like the people here. The small cuts on my ankles are getting dried by the dirt below me and watered by the sky, which is now a beautiful array of colours, with the sight of clouds ever so soft and grey. The sun is still setting and creating a lovely breeze to go together with the consistent rain. The smell that comes with the raindrops is indescribable but lovely for sure. Truly magnificent. As I keep looking up, my neck now getting sore, I trip onto the muddy road, head first.

The rain drops fall faster, as if the skies were laughing at me. My palms are flat on the ground, feeling the dirt and smelling its scent, my head is slightly lifted. You can't sense the air well from here, it's calmer, yet colder. My neck still hurts. It's not even about the pain anymore, It's just starting to get annoying.

As I scan the dust that is slightly beneath me, I notice an object in the near distance. It's the medallion I lost a few months ago. The layout of my necklace is simple, the patterns and whatnot, but the materials are of exquisite quality. It bears an oval shape, its core is a bright yellow opal with small touches of white, green and blue spread in its area. That gem is captivating; it somehow shines but is dull as well. Around this precious antiquity, strands of white gold reach out to encase it, making majestic floral patterns. Inside this necklace, you could fit a 5x5 cm page. How do I know this? That's exactly what I found inside.

 The paper was torn and wounded, frail and weak. The raindrops wore it down like a limestone rock that slowly erodes with the rain as time passes. My breath was shaking with anticipation as I opened it as gently as I could with my blistered, tough hands, being extremely patient and cautious, as to avoid ripping the paper. As the sheet gently unfolded, I could see smudges of ink on its sides. Small dots of red fluid were also on there, now swiftly blending with the rain as it continuously poured. I kept at it, until I could finally see all of the paper. To my inconvenience, the navy blue ink in which the paper was written in was worn down as well, there were only bits of letters scattered around the page. The only word I could make out was written in a blood-like substance.

"Redbird" I said out loud. I heard my stark yet velvety voice echo through me, pronouncing each letter perfectly, my tongue lightly bumping against my slightly crooked teeth. I felt my eyes narrow and light up as the edges of my mouth turned into a grin. I straightened up as if I felt pride, my feet shoulder-width apart, as I played with my thoughts.

"Redbird..." I said again, covering my mouth, trying to contain small giggles as minuscule flashes of my memories darted through my brain. Right before my right eye started twitching, my eyes went blank, my amusement turning into a strong feeling of disgust in a flash.

"Redbird..." The corners of my orbs crinkled as my eyes blazed with an emotion similar to rage. My eyebrows knitted, my forehead furrowed as I looked down at the page again. My mouth was slightly opened in annoyance, my nose wrinkled, my upper lip contorting into a growl as my jaw clenched. My head was moving slightly as my bandaged fingers tightened around the page. With much ease, I shredded the paper, making it nothing but a useless piece of junk as I sent it flying into the stagnant water beneath me. The rain helped drown the paper as I watched with morbid satisfaction. I know what this means. It will come back soon enough.