Underneath the Mango Tree
"It is a beautiful, calm summer day on Rook Island, and Vaas is both tranquil and warm. He sits beneath the protective shade of a mango tree, his well-worn machete lying neatly at his side and his dirty red tank top clings loosely around his body. A book lies open in his lap, its pages fluttering in the breeze; already he has forgotten what he was reading. The wind brings with it the fresh scent of blossoms and plants a light, cool kiss against his cheek.
Never leave, the island begs, and tears prick at his eyes.
Never, he promises.
He brings a mango to his mouth, eyes closed to savor the firm skin pressed against his lips before his teeth pierce the fruit's yellow flesh. A wet taste hits his tongue, both sour and sweet, and he cannot recall the last time he has ever felt this happy.
Forever, Vaas promises.
Suddenly an odd euphoria overtakes him. His eyes open and his vision blurs. Rain droplets that he cannot see soak his clothing and wet his hair, sending a deep chill throughout his body and goosebumps prickling across his skin. A scratching sensation fills his throat and he begins to cough, his breaths spiraling into jagged rasps before he realizes that he is choking. Something is stuck in his throat, constricting his airway—panic sends his heart racing, his lungs screaming for air—
Vaas leans forward and retches, and a single large cartridge spills from his mouth and onto the ground. He stares at the bronze casing, horrified beyond shock, and retches again; a cluster of oil soaked rags join the cartridge. He digs his fingernails into the soil, his stomach lurching with revulsion and betrayed sobbing. In the haze he can barely see the mango rotting in his hand, leather-black and wilted with mold; he squeezes it in rage, disgusting soupy mash oozing through his fingers and down his wrist.
The island. It was always the island.
Stay, begs the Island.
He has no choice.