Freedom Fighters

23. Oliverio

As the crows cawed, flapping their dark wings, Dario's consciousness slowly seeped into a still darkness.

No light. No sound. No thoughts. 

Nothingness.

It was as if a blanket was draped over his mind, blocking off any sense of existence. His soul drifted through the vacuum like a lost sheep. As it slowly approached death's door, a black hole opened up, sucking his soul in. His mind awoke to the sensation of falling, and panic streamed in like a flood. He opened his eyes in shock.

His hands flailed around in hope of grabbing something. But there was nothing but thin air. He looked down only to see complete darkness.

Where am I? 

Am I dead?

His heart burst out in a torrent of fear, climbing up to his throat.  Everything was a blur, a blur that swirled into the complete darkness. Suspended in the air, he surrendered himself to the infinite space above and below.

Falling... falling... falling... in this bottomless pit. 

Then everything turned white. 

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Dario's eyes jerked open suddenly, and he hungrily gasped in huge breaths of fresh air.

He took in the turquoise green walls around him and the clay red roof tiles above. Just being able to see the vibrant colours around him soothed him immensely, taking him out of the panic of being in complete darkness. 

As the thrill of living rushed into him, a sharp pain coursed through his abdomen, reminding him of his wound. 

Where am I?

Grunting, he placed his palms on the smooth bedsheet and pushed himself up to a sitting position. He then realised he was not wearing his green fatigues, but a loose-fitting grey cotton shirt and ragged blue pants. He ran his hands through the rough fabric of his shirt in incredulity. Underneath, his abdomen wound had been bandaged by tight linen wraps running around his waist.

In the corner of the room on the stone floor lay an altar. There was a red pot with intricate engravings of dragons filled to the brim with ashes. Three... sticks protruded out of them. Dario leaned in. The sticks were burning. He could see the embers. Smoke rose out of its burning ends, filling the room with this peculiar floral smell that was oddly soothing. What was most interesting was the miniature statue that resided in this red house-like structure that had yellow chinese writings on its back. The statue was that of a man with rose red skin clothed in green. But his green clothings had an yellow image of what Dario assumed to be a dragon embroidered all over him. He held a blade in his right hand, staring out with dignity.

The weird writings. The dragons. The redness. Dario had caught a few glimpses of these before in Havana's Barrio Chino (Chinatown).

"Ahh! You are awake." A gentle voice greeted him.

An unmistakably Chinese teenager stood at the door, holding a tin basin filled with water that had a white towel draping out of it. 

Dario was not sure how to respond, and he stayed silent. Many questions were running through his mind and he did not know which to ask first.

"You must have many questions. Let me answer them as I give you a wash, yes?" The boy continued in his fluid and unhurried voice. 

His round face sported a pleasantly hospitable expression, constantly smiling at Dario. His pearly round black eyes had this soft glimmer that oozed an innocent wistfulness. His olive tanned skin was flawlessly smooth. His facial features as a whole had this flatness to them that was distinctly Chinese.