Blind Visionary [John Murphy x OC; Becca's Island]

Chapter 4

 Tonight is particularly rough. Most nights suck, but this is worse. Strange - I thought I would be happy, or at least relieved, to meet another person for the first time since I was eleven. But it has only added stress, fear, and tested my patience.

It reminds me of the obstacles we faced to get here - me and my aunt. The decision to leave Azgeda in hopes of finding the City of Light was an easy one for her. She heard of it in passing while visiting a plagued village. The survivors told her they were soon to be embarking on the journey to the safe haven. They didn't know much, but their faith was enough to inspire her.

Once the Queen ordered my mother to be executed, there was no other option. She packed us each a small pack of supplies, clothes, and memories before grabbing my hand in the night. We walked for hours that night, the threat of howling wolves and rustling trees haunting our trek. I had no idea how bad it would get once we hit the Deadzone. I would kill to have my biggest threat be wolves.

I've been hitting this rock against metal for hours. A few times, I miss, and send the rock soaring down onto my thumb. This time, it bleeds open and blood gushes from the wound, staining the rock, the table, and John's jacket that I wear now as my own.

"Shit," I curse, slamming the rock onto the wooden table and extending my arm away as far as I can to avoid any more blood pouring onto the jacket. I grab the pocket of the coat where the red is stained against the charcoal grey fabric.

"Great," John says through an exhale with a smirk that makes me want to punch him. "First you knock me out," he begins. I immediately roll my eyes, applying pressure to the wound while looking up at him. "Then you kidnap me," he adds. "Then you steal my stuff just to bleed all over it."

I say nothing, giving him a moment to bask in his amusement. His thick eyebrows sit rested high upon his forehead.

"Tell me. What's next."

"Depends," I answer, gritting my teeth through the pain as I rip off a piece of the grey fabric, fastening it in a tight knot around the cut. "If you keep talking, I'll put that knife of yours to your throat. If you let me be, I'll hook you up to the chain and you can have your little bit of freedom. Your choice."

I hear him scoff but I pay it no mind as I pick the rock up and continue where I left off. My thumb throbs under the pressure of the fabric. I grunt with each swing, this time paying extra caution to not injure myself again. My physical abilities are all I've got left. My mental abilities are wearing fast.

"What's your name?"

At first I think I'm hearing things or he's setting me up for some kind of joke. I'm shocked at the simplicity of his question. There's no demand from me, just conversation. I've forgotten what that's like.

"Didn't you hear me? Don't talk."

"What, I can't ask your name?"

I bite my tongue, clenching my teeth to prevent the angry outburst I feel swelling up in my heaving chest.

"You're not a good listener," is all I say.

"You're not a good talker."

I freeze. Look up. Send him all the irritation my eyes can muster.

"You have no idea what I've been through."

"Yeah, so let's start by getting your name."

"Mira," I say, giving up.

I look up just in time to see John nod, pursing his lips in a tight line.

"So, Mira," he repeats. My name sounds foreign coming from his mouth. I haven't heard my name in all of seven years. It makes me uncomfortable, but mostly sad. My father named me and took great pride in it. I look away again, swallowing the urge to cry in front of this boy. He opens his mouth to speak again, his eyes light with amusement as he smirks up at me in a mischievous glare. "What exactly have you 'been through'?"