My arms were killing me.

The taste of bile was still extremely fresh in my mouth, and seaweed was stuck in my hair. And for the pain? It had spread down from my shoulders to my lower back, where thousands of grains of sand clung to my ragged pants. My bare feet sank into the soft earth, where they were partially buried under rushing and falling salt water.

I vomited until there was nothing left to come up. I heard the murmured voices of the people, some walking by to fill their jugs with water, others to stare. By the third day, I could barely keep my eyes open, and there was open sun. No clouds. Not even the shriveled palm trees could do much for shade, and I was struggling to keep my eyes open. Strands of my matted hair hung over my face and scabbed, bleeding lips. I let my dirt rimmed fingernails curl against the wooden post.

The sky had become dark when the sound of rope being cut filled my ears. I fell face first into the sand---blessedly cold, but four pairs of hands suddenly pulled me up by my shoulders. The bloodstained jacket I had on was torn directly into the middle, exposing my sweaty torso to the night air. Crickets and bullfrogs went off in the distance. My bare feet left trails against the sand as I was dragged forward. Someone was talking, their voice was echoey, sort of like they were shouting within a dark, empty cave. The world was stuck in so many blurry colors, like a demented painting.

* * * * * * *

Something was splashed against my face.

A coughing fit settled in my lungs, and saliva dripped from my parted mouth. I struggled to breathe, as more fluids were thrown upon me. The coldness was a shock to me as I peeled my swollen eyes open. My arms and legs were still restrained, and I couldn't push back the feeling of despair as I realized that there was more rope.

At least I was sitting upright.

"He's coming to. Should I try another go?"

"Hold on."

Blinking twice, I strained my neck to look up. A large puddle had gathered beneath me, where I was drenched head to toe. George was carelessly wielding a machete in one hand, smoking a corn pipe with the other while perched across a nearby stone. It didn't take me long to realize I was in a small cave, where the crashing of the waves could be heard from the distance, their foam seeping from between the rocks. Ki slowly lowered the wooden bucket in his hands, his red hair blowing in the wind. Covey was chewing tobacco, his jaw moving up and down. All three mens' eyes fell upon me, making my heart skip a beat.

The ropes fiercely bit into my skin.

"What part," George began, "of the phrase stay away do you not fully comprehend?" He took a step forward and placed the tip of the machete directly underneath my chin, grazing me. A faint drop of blood traveled down the side of my neck.

In the corner of my eye I could see Ki wincing.

Before I could fully register what was coming next, Covey's fist collided with my jaw, causing me to grunt. Both he and George threw a couple of more punches until my nose and face were sticky with blood and I could hardly see out of my puffy eyes. When they were done with me, they headed off into the sunrise, where the sky was pink and purple and blue and the tide had gradually lowered. I admired what lovely colors they were.

* * * * * * *

They made the red haired kid watch me.

By now, I knew that the Khonie were becoming more used to guns and pistols, most likely provided by those in Rufus' camp. But Ki looked terrified of them, like he couldn't wait to toss it out of his hands. He couldn't have been older than seventeen, and he came by early every morning, his own gun awkwardly pointed at me. He was a skinny guy, and his clothes looked too baggy on him---the red and white clay painted on his cheeks and bones betraying a certain aspect of himself. He didn't look like he could plow a straight row in a field to save his life, and his hands shook a great deal. I would pretend to be asleep most of the time so that he could relax a bit. And he did. Sometimes, he brought a basket he was weaving out of straw or carved out a small stone knife he carried on his waistband at all times. He was definitely a person who was good with his hands.

Yet I was grateful for having someone with me.

So after a couple of mornings, I had the courage to keep my eyes open but my head low, so that he didn't realize that I was observing him. He always sat as far as he could away from me, so it didn't seem apparent as first, as I easily sensed his discomfort. He often faintly hummed to himself, adding an elaborate design to a pair of shoes he was making out of deerskin, or lost in his craft.

One gray afternoon, I finally found my voice, which was quiet and raw. The kid's back was turned to me, as he was bent over, creating some sort of blanket from an animal hide. His eyes were focused on some sort of complicated but beautiful pattern that I didn't even know was possible to create. He paused to admire his handiwork.

"That's nice."

Ki immediately spun in my direction and grabbed the gun. He cocked it at my head. Gone were the peaceful look in his eyes, and his fingers hung over the trigger. His dark eyes narrowed, and once more; his arms were shaking. As he stood up, he nearly tripped, but regained his balance. I kept my head low, my eyes to the ground.

"What is it that you are making?"

"Shut up." It came out in a nervous tone.

So I did. For the next few days, I didn't say a word, although my stomach was caving in due to hunger. They gave me cold water and oysters, but my skin was starting to break out due to being trapped in a position for so long. Night came as quickly as the morning time did. The rain stopped.

"Hey," I whispered to him in the dark.

Silence. Only a small candle illuminated his silhouetted form, and his back was turned to me as usual. Silently, I took a deep breath, squirming under the tight ropes that were now etched deep into my skin. The pain was unbearable, but I refused to show it. I didn't need anyone to see it.

"I just want to talk to you. That's all, buddy."

Ki glanced at my direction. Once more, he began to reach for his gun.

"Please?"

Rage crossed his face. "I don't converse with cold blooded murderers."

My throat went dry. Murderer. Murderer.

In disgust, he began to rise from the rock he was sitting and made his way through the sea foam, wading through the waste deep stuff. As he struggled make his way towards the entrance of the cave, the project he was working on slipped from his hands and fell into the water with a loud plop. Dismay fell upon his face, and as he lowered his shoulders in defeat, I quietly spoke out.

"Don’t…don’t worry. I got it."

Ki's eyes went wide. As I began to concentrate, the waves pulled back, revealing the damp sand. The satchel he had been working on was halfway buried in it, and he yanked it off the moist ground. The water came in with a crash, with the heavy waves that beat against the coral reefs as the pressure in my head subsided. Blood slowly escaped from my left nostril and landed directly onto my mouth.

He gaped at me. Cold winds were rushing through the dense cave. The satchel was soaking wet, dripping, covered in sea foam.

A small smile formed on my lips.