1. (Juliet)
The jungle's rapid tempo has slowed momentarily to allow all the different shades of greens to merge together into a tedious curtain, and in between the small valleys of leaves, speckles of dancing light spill down and pull apart at its darkened blanket. Pale blue eyes dart back and forth anxiously from behind the little windows of a wiry net. The island's voice whispers softly through the calming breeze, engaging with its avid wildlife into song. The attentive blue hues darken slightly, afraid to add to the waterfall of sounds that crash all around.
A shuffle of new sounds begins to crackle loudly in front of her, the distinct echo of fallen tree branches being crushed under foot. Those searching eyes widen in terrified anticipation of what will emerge from the greenery of the jungle. There's a wave of excited whispers that encircle her, growing louder with every passing moment. Her slender fingers grip tighter around the wiry skeleton of the net that traps her high above the ground. Its scratchy material tickles her skin, as she fights harder to maintain her view through one of the small openings in the net.
Agitated panic begins to seep into her every vein, drowning out any sensible thoughts. Her steadily chimed heartbeat pulsates faster with a much deeper fear urging it desperately to reach her feet so that she can start running hastily in the opposite direction. She coughs anxiously on the ludicrous notion, as her fingers turn a shade whiter around the netted fabric, giving a solemn tut at her misfortune to get caught up in a make-shift trap.
There's no logically reasoning behind such a large, direct trap, which she assumes has only one primary purpose; to capture a person. There is no explanation at hand that she knows of as to why someone would want to capture another person. She hasn't even seen anyone since she landed up in the net over a night ago. She inwardly shudders at the acknowledgement that she might have to end up spending another darkened night in the tight prison, alone and afraid.
The distant echoes are getting heavier against the jungle's fragile backdrop, instantly shifting her attention back to the limited view. She's momentarily startled to actually see someone, anyone, standing just below her net, looking curiously back at her with an awe of wonderment before the stranger's face turns colder with an air of suspicion clouding their eyes.
Her words instantly die as soon as she tries to form them on her tongue, unable to convey what she wants to say without sounding as frightened as she is. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She watches silently at the new woman that has appeared from out of the jungle's unruly curtain. She's not seen anyone for a while and while the stranger's eyes are narrowing together in a wild array of scepticism, it's still overwhelmingly relieving not to be entirely on her own anymore. She drinks in the woman's shaggy appearance, the way her dark, matted hair falls in great waves across her shoulders, the dirt that stains the woman's old and torn clothes, and she wonders if this is what she will look like in a few days time.
"Over here." She hears the woman speak for the first time and her first words are more than confusing for her to listen to. She would have thought the woman would have addressed her directly, wanting to know what she was doing in her trap for one thing. It's definitely this woman's trap, she's sure of it, why else would she have come armed with a rifle? She replays the stranger's words again over inside her mind, frowningly lightly when she thinks she's detected a hint of an accent, but she can't place where the accent is from.
"Don't get to close." Once again the woman doesn't direct her words at her, instead she calls them out, as more crackling sounds creep out of the jungle. She's heard the accent again, it's definitely a foreign accent, she determines, definitely European. Finally the echoes of footsteps trudging through the overgrown come to a halt, and she watches from behind the safety of her net at the four other people that have come to stand next to the unknown woman. She gulps hastily at the air around her, the ardent fear rising so far up her throat that she feels she might suffocate on its powerful taste.
"She's one of them," the woman states loudly, rising her rifle a little higher towards the net, "You can't trust her." French, she declares in her mind at the woman's distinct accent, and it starts to disturb her at the thoughts of how lost she really is to have landed in a French woman's trap. She sees their eyes scanning her with the same initial amazement before they turn harsher, measuring her against the French woman's words.
She swallows against her bruised pride, knowing that she has kept onto her timid silence for far too long. She's thirsty and hungry. She grabs onto the fraying material of the net a little tighter and feels the anxiousness slip out of her mouth, coating her words in apparent fear for all five of them to hear, "Help me, please." There's a moment where she thinks that all of them are just going to laugh and walk away, since none of them move or say anything. She begins to wonder if any of them speak English, are all of them French?
"Cut her down." There's a ripple of anger that cuts through the humid air, as one of the three men points to the single rope attached to the opposite tree, the only thing that is keeping her at her current height. She watches his eyes grow with frustrated determination, his shaven head turning to look at one of the other men. American, she notices with a sigh of relief, at least there's some familiar ground that she has with one of them.
"You can't trust her," the French woman snaps back, her eyes darting daringly at the American man. He shakes his head in rage making the faint hairs that trace his chin catch some of the fallen rays of light. "Cut her down, now," the American enforces again, and she assumes now that he must have some sort of authority with the others, since one of them obediently takes his knife and slices it across the rope holding her up.
She gasps at the sudden drop, the world momentarily blurring from her vision, before the smacking pain jolts her whole body back into focus. It's only when the numbness subsides and the real agony of her fall sets in that she realises her ankle is sprained. She shifts uneasily around, untangling herself out of the mass of netted material with a sharpened grimace sitting restlessly on her dry lips. Everything is stinging with an avid rawness and the casual scrapes that she's accumulated over the past few days have reopened into a bloody mess across her arms.
"What were you thinking?" She stays quiet as the tall, dark haired American turns his frustration onto one of the other men in his group. Her attention quickly falls onto the man in question, his darkened eyes set rigidly on her, as his muscular arms flex with the weight of the rifle in his hands. His skin is darker than that of any of the others that she can see; his face is covered in an unkempt black beard, hiding most of his strong jaw line.
"If she is one of them, then we have to be careful," he tells the American flatly in a foreign accent of his own. She can't place it, not this time, it's too distant for her to recognise. She pushes herself weakly from the ground, bits of the jungle's floor sticking to her clothing as she tries to brush them off herself instinctively. She instantly regrets putting some weight on her sprained ankle, feeling the waves of pain bite at her skin, but she forces it off her mind not wanting to appear anymore vulnerable than she already is. Instead she's frowning at the hostile tone in the young man's tone and the way his narrowed eyes are glaring at her from behind his rifle.
"Do you speak English?" Her head turns at the abrupt voice that is daring enough to address her directly for the first time, instead of just speaking about her amongst themselves in terms she doesn't fully comprehend. He's the last one of the men to speak, he's American too she concludes, and much less intimidating than the others since he isn't holding any sort of weapon at her. His bald head reflects the shimmering light and it defects her attention from his crooked smile for a moment, before her eyes dart around at the other faces screwed up in keen suspicion. She nods quickly when she hears a click from one of the guns cocking in its treat to fire at her.
"Who are you?" Her eyes are drawn to the last remaining person before her that she hasn't heard speak, seemingly ignoring the question being thrown harshly at her from the darker man. The woman appears to be much younger than any of her tribal friends, yet she seems just as capable of using her rifle as the rest of them from the strong stance she asserts in her chosen spot. She's intrigued by the woman who has decided not to chime in with her friends' interrogation; she's interested to know what accent she possesses to, whether she has one at all.
"You're wasting your time," the French woman mumbles, "whatever she says will be a lie." She frowns instantly, insulted at the notion that these people have already made their minds up about her and that they somehow already know exactly who she is. The truth is, they don't have a clue about what she's been through to be here standing in front of them all, they don't appreciate how difficult the whole overwhelming experience has been for her. But she reasons with herself being reminded that they have all probably gone a little mad from the island's furious heat. They probably view anyone else who isn't apart of their cosy little group as an outsider, someone who lies.
"Why don't we just let her answer the question," she hears the bald man grow irritable, as he waves his right hand suggestively at the French woman, "then we can decide whether she's telling the truth or not." All eyes turn to her expectantly, yet out of all of them, the younger woman's eyes appear more scrutinising, and that she determines, is quite a feat judging by the death stare she is receiving from the darker man.
"Well?" he asks her, his black beard dancing around his chin as he speaks, "Who are you?" She swallows anxiously, fixing the flattened line between her lips to be even more rigid than before.
"Erica," she replies hoarsely, realising that it's the first time she's spoken in a few days.
"Erica what?" his hostile tone doesn't waver a single note, as he readjusts the rifle slightly in his hands. "Evans," she answers obediently, trying her utmost to remain unmoved by all the guns being pointed at her.
"And what are you doing here, Erica Evans?" he continues his impatient questioning, as the others look on expectantly. She drops her gaze from all of them, great sadness falling on her when she's finally granted a moment to recall the tragic reasons why she's here on this island.
She licks awkwardly at her dry lips, shaking her head regretfully, "It was suppose to be one hundred percent safe."
Naturally he bites back at her cryptic response, demanding to know what was meant to be made so safe.
"The hot air balloon," she dares to look him in the eye, "I don't know how we crashed."
"We?" It's the ruggedly handsome American's turn to fire the questions now, picking up instantly on the news that there are more people in her party than they first realised. Her eyes momentarily widen in coming to understand what she's just let slip, but then her face saddens before she gives a weak nod. "My husband and I," she clarifies, "We were travelling around the world, but we crashed."
"And where is this husband of yours?" the darker man is back to throwing his darts at her, expecting her to fall victim of one. She beckons with her head gently out into the jungle, "I buried him." An uncomfortable silence hangs thickly in the air, as they're obviously trying to fathom out the woman's story, pulling apart all the details to gain a better insight as to what she's doing there, in their part of the jungle.
She watches helplessly as they exchange glances between one another, their guns never dancing away from their marks. The French woman mutters something under her breath to the younger woman, something that the men don't seem to pick up on, and she stares as the younger woman nods her head slowly, determination blinding her eyes. She frowns at their continuous silence, while the niggling pain is still pulsating heavily through her body and not one of them has offered to help her, not one of them has offered her a drink, or some food.
She's abruptly thrown off guard when the tall American speaks up, smashing through the muted cloud that has rested on all of them. "Who are you? Where did you come from?" She feels the confusion dripping fast onto her broken brow, she's already answered those questions, she's already told them what they want to know, yet they still persist on asking her the same thing. She spots their trap quickly, they want her to slip up the second time of telling her story, for whatever reasons, these people are highly suspicious of her and they won't rest until she makes a mistake.