It was cold. That was the first thing Mark noticed when he regained consciousness. One might think that he would have noticed the pain first, or the worry at not knowing where he was, but after living his whole life wandering the scorching sands, the first thing Mark became aware of was that it was cold.
He opened his eyes as much as he could manage, which was not much- his left was swollen shut and his right had a very large scab across it. What he could see was the small, empty room in which he was laying, the rotting door hanging perilously from one hinge. Mark tried to lift his hand, but found that his arm from the shoulder down was numb and immovable. He tried the other hand, this time managing to lift it a few inches off the grey blanket before it fell back into its place.
His head was far too cloudy to try and move about, so he instead remained still, trying to sort out the confusing images in his head. Mark remembered a dragon, but then how could he not? He had been hunting dragons since he was a teenager. There was a lapse in his memory. Images of a dragon and a Jeep jumped wildly to a hazy view of the sky. People had been standing over him; he could see their dark forms looming in.
Anxiousness built inside him.
"What are these images that haunt my mind?" he asked himself. "Why can't I remember anything that happened after…after…? What day is this?"
Fear began to set in as Mark frantically tried to remember something- anything. He knew that he had been out in the desert, and he vaguely recalled speeding towards something shiny in the distance before everything went dark. Then there were people…dark shapes…and he awakens, nearly paralyzed, and in pain.
"Oh God, I'm in Hell, aren't I?" he mumbled, eyes wide with self-loathing. "I always knew this was coming. I told myself I should have been better, tried harder. Oh, what have I done to myself?"
"Broken three ribs, your right arm in two spots, and cracked your head on a rock," came a quiet, gentle voice. "And to answer your other question: no, you aren't in Hell...at least not yet." A slender young woman stepped through the open doorway. In his frantic state of mind, Mark had failed to notice her entrance. "I'm Maria, by the way. Maria Trilla. My father was one of the men you saved yesterday, and he asked me to make sure you were comfortable and well fed."
Mark stared for a moment before realizing that his mouth was open. He shut it hastily. Maria was tall and thin, but with the right curves in the right places. Her clothes were simple and loose, but not so loose that Mark was left wondering. Her long brown hair poured over her shoulders, silky and soft. Her eyes, big and golden brown, were framed by thick, dark lashes. She possessed a kind of beauty that Mark had not seen since long, long before the dragons came. In a word, she was stunning.
Maria was also very keen, and it didn't get by her that the man on the cot found her attractive. She smiled and blushed softly, and quickly turned her back and pretended to fiddle with something Mark couldn't see. After a quick second to compose herself, she spun slowly around, this time with a tray in her hands. Steam poured out of a bowl and a cup, and the tantalizing aroma of ripe strawberries was filling the small room.
Mark grinned, inhaling
deeply. His stomach growled in anticipation. Maria laughed softly and
set the tray down next to Mark's cot. Creamy oatmeal sloshed inside
the bowl, and herbal tea swirled honey colored in the cup.
"The
food is brimming with all kinds of proteins and fibers, and should
give you some energy," Maria began. "The tea is an old recipe,
and supposedly promotes fast healing. With all the things that might
have survived the dragon's fire, this one has had more use than
most. There are so many things we might have been able to use, if
only they weren't ash now. Oh, listen to me, going on about things
we can't change. Well, I have my chores to attend to, and Father
wouldn't want me dawdling about and making a fool of myself. I'll
come by later- when I'm finished- to make sure you're alright."
And with that, she stepped through the doorway and out of the room, leaving Mark to gape at the dark hallway beyond his resting place. "I'm Mark. Mark Andrews. You're very pretty, did you know that? Thanks for the food, I'm starving. Nice to have met you," he said to the grey plaster walls. "Anything would have been better than that dumb look. Stupid, Mark; that was very stupid."
Maria's head peeked around the corner, her eyes sparkling. A big grin was on her face and her cheeks were flushed red. "I forgot to leave you a spoon," she whispered. Slipping back into the room, she set the utensil on the tray next to the bowl and retreated to the door once more, still crimson faced. "Nice to have met you too, Mark."
Mark found himself staring at the doorway once more. After a short while, he managed to blink. Another span of time, and he inhaled.
Slowly he became aware that the scent of strawberries had dissipated. Looking down at the bowl, he watched the creamy substance slowly harden, unable to signal his hand to move. His brow furrowed, and he sniffed the air, searching for that delicious aroma. All he could smell was the crud that was corrupting his oatmeal. In fact, now that he thought about it, the items on the tray didn't smell anything like strawberries.
"Well where did that scent come from?" Mark wondered.
