Chapter Ten
Hannah
When I wake, I feel stronger. I can stand on my own. Day by day, I get gradually stronger. My fever drops. I feel almost healed. I can finally keep food down. I tell all this to Mich, and we begin planning our escape. I pretend to faint, Mich calls for them. Then, we attack. Run in the midst of the chaos. We just have to get our weapons and go. Mich approaches me as I am doing push-ups. On my twentieth one, he speaks up.
“Tomorrow. When you wake, wait a bit. I will signal you with a line; ‘want some soup?’ Then you pretend to faint. Got it?” He says. I nod.
“Have you located our weapons?” I ask.
“When Mbulala brought me here, she gave our weapons to a man, who put them in a tent. I assume that’s where they put their weapons,” Mich explains, staring intently at the wall. He begins working out beside me, doing Burpees. I can feel my muscles burning with the effort. I have gotten much better, but I have not fully recovered. I stand up and do jumping-jacks. The sun is setting. I curl up in my bed and offer Mich, who lies down beside me, a blanket. He gladly accepts, and I soon enter the world of dreams. I am in my apartment in Florida. Which is weird, because the only dream I had of home was the one of my sister. My mother is asleep in the Lazy Boy. The lights are off, but the rooms is lit up by the blue screen of the tv. The clock reads 12:39 in the morning. I remember this moment. My heart beats in my throat. It is a week before I leave for the cruise. Something terrible is about to happen. I hear a strangled scream come from my sister’s room. The metal-y smell of blood fills the air. I don’t move, but before I know it, I am in her room. A shadowy figure holds my sister at knifepoint. Blood soaks through her shirt. I open my mouth, but no words come out. The figure slides the knife across her throat, and she goes limp. I watch myself, the me back then, recklessly launch myself at the figure. I can feel a searing pain spread through my arm as the knife sinks into the arm of old me. Old me strangles the figure, and when they fall to the ground, the hood comes up. It is my father. It is then that I realized I have a pretty messed up family. My old mom runs into the room, screaming. I hear the wail of sirens in the background, and watch blood ooze from the wound on my arm. Then, the dream fades. I wipe silent tears from my face. Mich is asleep. I shake him awake. It is morning. I hear birds cawing at one another. Mich and I do some light workouts. And then he says it, “Do you want some soup?” I let out an anguished cry and fall to the ground. Mich calls urgently for somebody, anybody. He’s lucky I took theater classes at home. I stare at the ceiling, eyes blank. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a crowd forming. And then, they begin to fall. I can see Mich, doing some sort of silent assassination. None of them notice. Guilt flares through me as Mbulala kneels beside me. I remember her yellow-toothed smile. But we must escape. I lurch up and head-butt her. She falls to the ground. I join Mich. The crowd is not as big as I anticipated. Once the six or so people that came are unconscious, Mich looks to me. A bruise is forming on his jaw where one of them fought back.
“I’m fine,” I say. He nods, and grabs my arm. We sneak through the entrance and duck behind a tent as a group of chatting tribal kids pass us. Mich points to a tent roughly twenty yards down. I gulp. The place is jam-packed with tribal people. All the men have bows slung across their shoulders. The women carry baskets full of fruit.
Sexist, I think.
The children chase each other with wooden spears. The place is one big stereotype. I tuck my hair behind my ears and wait for Mich’s signal. He waves his hand, and we dash behind the next tent. And then, I hear the unexpected. Helicopter blades.
Realistic Fiction
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