I had never imagined that I would ever find myself in a little, ancient bathtub washing a hard layer of grime and salt off myself, guarded by someone, who, to all intents and purposes, appeared to be a henchman. I couldn't bring myself to care in the slightest.
I was having a hard time actually getting it off, and I wearily examined my left arm yet again. There, amidst the scum that I had managed to collect was a glimpse of pale skin, and a small patch of moles. I sighed. At least I was finally managing to get somewhere. I had welcomed the scolding water over two hours ago, and realised that there may have had to have been a few more baths to go before I could get pristine, much to my disappointment.
Glancing at the sternly sombre guardsman that had obviously been assigned to me, to make sure he wasn't looking, I stepped out of the water and on to the passably comfortable towel that had been laid out before me, drying myself as quickly as possible so that no-one could walk in on me frantically clutching an old towel to my chest. There was no need to fear, though, as not one other person entered, and the man (who I had kept my eye on throughout)'s stoicism remained firmly in place throughout. I was not vain enough to think that the men would be particularly interested in me especially, as a malnourished teenager with no body to speak of, although it became apparent the longer I watched them that these men had obviously been on the island for quite some time now without female company. I was grateful that they had kept their distance (whether forced or otherwise) and refused to talk to me. It was a two-way street, and the feeling was mutual.
I had presumed that the Silver man who had tried to speak to me when I had woken out of my deep slumber was instructing the other men to not engage me in conversation at all (in the small amount of time I had spent around him, there was an aura to be felt, a natural chilling charisma that set him apart from the others, who were all dressed in the same clothes. It reminded me of a home-made army.), but he too did not approach me. I had heard no words here aside from his the night before, the only new contact I had with anyone was the chaperone that had thrown a towel at me and lead me through endless uninhabited hallways to a full bath. My mouth had watered at the sight of it.
It was an absolute mystery, and my brain was working overtime to try to make heads or tails of whatever this place was, and whoever the dwellers were. It all seemed to be a professional environment, and something obviously somewhat prosecutable, or otherwise taboo, was occurring. I was not a dainty little wallflower, and was less concerned about how they were most probably "bad" people, and more about why I was actually there. (Although before, I had wondered about how I had managed to wash up on this place, I now had more pressing matters to ponder. I had no misconceptions that they would have no trouble in killing me if I was not of a use, and since that use was not sexual, I could only guess what it was.)
I was scared. And it took a lot to scare me recently.
There were no clean clothes when I returned to the medical cot, although I expected none. Changing into the shorts, top and bra I had been wearing for the last however long was a depressing task, and I chose to do so more than a little begrudgingly. Sitting, I opened a book casually resting on the bedside table not too far away from my arm's reach, and started reading about the Feather Men, waiting for someone to come.
It was a while before someone did, although the inevitable footsteps still shook me a little. This time, I didn't keep staring at the words on the page, blurring due to my eyes straining in the twilight, instead politely lowering the book to my lap, giving my attention to the man smiling thoughtfully to himself in front of me.
It was awkward for a few minutes, neither of us talking. I had assumed he would be relentlessly interrogating me, perhaps with some added help from painful devices, but he just stood there, his head occasionally twisting around with the thoughts he was having, a faux display of knowing modesty as his faintly bulbous eyes softly examined my bruised facial features. I racked up the courage to try the same, catching little glimpses at the face that somehow wasn't quite natural enough to belong to a completely sane man.
When his studying was complete, he turned on his heels, showing his tall, imposing physique and the river of blonde hair atop of his head, and starting walking away slightly, although not before uttering a few soft words and curling a lone finger at me, obviously in an attempt to get me to follow. And follow I did.
Thank you all for reading! Firstly, I didn't want her to come across as a sexual object (he's not going to think she's the most physically perfect specimen in the entire world and fall head over heels with her), and I'm trying to subtly weave the story, but I'm wary of people maybe losing interest. Please let me know what you think (and even what you want to happen! I have my ideas, and I want to know how close to the mark you all are. If any of you have questions, it would be an absolute pleasure to answer them, or just discuss the story). As always, all non-anonymous reviews will be replied to. Although these chapters may seem fairly meandering, I'm sowing seeds of things to come, so bear that in mind.
Strap in, everyone.
