Finding Darkness

Episode 7

Jackson’s face settled into a serious expression, the previous lightheartedness completely gone. His gaze was intense, unwavering, pinning me in place. "You need to stay, Mina."

"No, I don’t need to," I stated, my defiance firm, a brittle shield against his growing insistence. My body was screaming for rest, but my mind was a frantic kaleidoscope of Elpis’s terrified face and the NWE trucks disappearing into the night.

"Why do you have to be so stubborn?" he asked, his voice thick with a frustration that mirrored my own.

"I’m not being stubborn! I just don’t know why you can’t just let me go!" I snapped back, my voice edged with a dangerous tremor. I was seriously on the verge of losing my temper, of physically acting on the urge to knock him on his ass, regardless of my injured shoulder. This conversation was an agonizing distraction, every second spent here feeling like a year lost in the search for Elpis.

Jackson moved closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming, and grasped my shoulders, his grip surprisingly firm. "Look…" he began, his voice softening, attempting to bridge the chasm of my distrust.

I instinctively lifted my arms to push him away, a sharp wince escaping me as searing pain ripped through my injured shoulder. “Don’t touch me!” The words were a guttural snarl, a primal defense.

Jackson was about to respond, a frustrated retort already forming on his lips, when a high-pitched, child’s voice pierced the tense air. "BIG BROOOOOOOTHER?"

We both looked over, our heads snapping in unison. A small girl, a whirlwind of motion and vibrant energy, was running towards us from the direction of his camp. "What is it, Michaela?" Jackson asked, his voice softening immediately, all traces of the previous exasperation melting away. The shift in his demeanor was jarring, revealing a tenderness I hadn't expected.

I stopped breathing. The world narrowed to that small, approaching figure. The air grew thin, my ears ringing with a soundless static. I didn’t even hear what Jackson and the little girl were saying. She was around four or five, a tangle of dark curly hair bouncing with each step, and these huge, bright blue eyes that were impossibly familiar. Those eyes. She looked just like Elpis. So much like her that it stole the breath from my lungs, leaving me hollow and gasping. Why does this little girl look like her? I must be hallucinating. My fever, the blood loss, the exhaustion—it had to be. My mind was playing cruel tricks on me.

I felt someone gently shake my arm, the movement jarring me from my stupor. "Hey, are you okay?" Jackson's voice, now laced with genuine concern, broke through the suffocating silence in my head.

I shook my head, tearing my gaze from the child, and looked up at his face. His expression was etched with worry, a faint line forming between his brows. His concern was palpable, and for a fleeting moment, disarming. "You don’t look so good. You’re so pale."

My eyes, against my will, drifted back down to the little girl. She was now standing directly in front of me, looking up with a wide, innocent smile, her blue eyes—so strikingly like Elpis’s—fixed on me. "Hi! My name’s Michaela. What’s your name?" Her voice was pure, unburdened by the horrors of this world.

I couldn't be here. I simply could not be here. The uncanny resemblance was a physical blow, a fresh wound tearing through my already fractured composure. It was too much. I looked back at Jackson, who was now on the verge of panic, his eyes darting frantically between me and the child, understanding dawning in their blue depths. I couldn’t stay. I had to get away. I swiped away Jackson’s hands with a sudden surge of adrenaline and tried to bolt, running blindly toward the sparse line of trees, away from the innocence that mirrored my agony.

Jackson reacted instantly, grabbing my arms again. His grip was surprisingly strong, restraining me despite my frantic struggles. I jerked away with a desperate, unthinking force, a sharp, searing pain ripping through my shoulder. A loud pop echoed inside my head, a sickening sound that suggested something had torn or slipped.

"WHAT THE HELL!? Don’t grab me like that!" I yelled, my voice raw with anguish and fury, a strangled scream born of physical pain and overwhelming emotional torment.

I finally broke free, stumbling as I ran toward the nearest clump of trees, each step jarring my wounded body. My breathing was ragged, shallow gasps. My head swam with dizziness, the world tilting precariously. I collapsed beneath a large oak, pressing my back against its rough trunk, forcing myself to take deep,, shaky breaths, trying desperately to calm the storm raging inside me. Everything hurt. The physical pain was nothing I couldn’t handle, a familiar companion in this brutal existence. But I felt the warm, sticky wetness of blood soaking through my shirt again, and for the first time, I didn't care. Not being able to control my emotions felt like a weakness, an unbearable burden. Emotions were messy, a dangerous distraction. They made people make irrational decisions and choices, they could get you killed. It used to be so easy. People had compared me to a robot because I seemed utterly devoid of feeling, immune to the chaos of human sentiment. I couldn’t take this. I buried my face in my hands, trying to hide from the pain, from Jackson, from this damn cruel world that relentlessly stole everything I held dear.

I don’t know how much time had passed, whether minutes or hours, but I heard the distinct crunch of footsteps approaching, light but deliberate. I already knew who it was. My senses, though dulled by exhaustion and despair, were still sharp enough to recognize his presence. "Leave me alone," I mumbled, my voice muffled by my hands, heavy with defeat.

“Can’t do that,” Jackson said, his voice closer now, surprisingly gentle, almost soothing.

“Yes, you can!” I snapped, though the effort tired me, each word a struggle against the encroaching weakness.

“Nope. Stop being like that. I came to take care of your wounds. I’m sure you tore some stitches.” His tone was firm, but without the usual exasperation, tinged with a quiet determination.

I finally lifted my head, my eyes red-rimmed from unshed tears and exhaustion, and looked directly into his. My heart skipped a beat, a traitorous flutter in my chest, a reaction I couldn’t understand nor control. We just stared at each other for a long moment, the quiet tension thrumming between us, charged with unasked questions and unspoken histories. Then, Jackson lifted the corners of his mouth into a slow, sly smile, a hint of genuine amusement dancing in his eyes. My heart was about to jump out of my chest, pounding against my ribs. Why did he make me feel this way? This maddening, confusing way that eroded my control?

I tore my gaze away, looking past his shoulder, anywhere but those unsettling blue eyes. “Why are you so close?” The question was a weak attempt to regain some semblance of control, to put distance between us.

Jackson rolled his eyes, the hint of a grin still playing on his lips, unconcerned by my discomfort. “I have to be, so I can tend to your wounds properly.” His tone was back to that familiar, slightly arrogant smart-ass.

I closed my eyes, took a deep, shuddering breath, willing my racing heart to calm its frantic rhythm. “Fine. Just hurry up.”

He chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound. “I’ll try.”

He reached for my injured shoulder, and I instinctively flinched, jerking back. The pain was still searing, but it was the invasion of my personal space, the intimacy of his touch, that made me recoil. "Look, I have to take care of this," he said, his voice laced with the familiar edge of exasperation. "Do you want it to take any longer to heal?" His smart-ass tone was back, a welcome return to their established banter, a distraction from the unnerving emotional turmoil.

I sighed, forced myself to adjust my posture, and let him do what needed to be done. The physical discomfort was secondary to the deep unease of having my scars exposed, of having to lift my shirt for him to get to the wound. Each one was a story, a history I desperately tried to keep buried, a testament to a life I refused to remember.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked, his voice low, almost contemplative, his attention seemingly focused on his task.

“Depends,” I muttered, my eyes fixed on a distant patch of sky, refusing to meet his gaze.

He didn't look at me directly, continuing to work with skilled, efficient hands, meticulously re-bandaging my shoulder. “What happened to you?”

My brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” I asked, feigning ignorance, though I knew exactly what he meant. My body was an open book of violence, a roadmap of past traumas.

He took a deep breath, the subtle sound of it amplifying the quiet tension between us. “How did you get all those scars?”

He’s a brave one. Or incredibly stupid. Most people learned not to ask about them. My entire torso, front and back, was a canvas of healed trauma, a silent record of countless battles and unspeakable acts. People rarely questioned me about them, and if they did, I’d offer a vague, dismissive answer about some "accident." These scars were a constant, brutal reminder of the past, a past that seemed to be encroaching more and more since I’d been around Jackson, since those cursed dreams. “That’s none of your business!” I snapped, my voice sharp, a protective snarl.

“You’re right, it is none of my business,” he conceded, surprising me with his immediate agreement. But then he continued, his voice softening, taking on a different kind of concern, a deeper resonance that disarmed me. “Those are a result of something seriously wrong that happened to you. Plus, this isn’t the first time you’ve ever been shot either, is it? Who are you, really, Mina?”

I felt my cheeks flush, not just with anger now, but with a deeper, unsettling vulnerability. He saw through my facade, saw more than I wanted anyone to see. “You ask too many damn questions!”

He smiled, that infuriating, charming smile, the one that made my stomach flutter unexpectedly. “Yeah, I do.”

And when he smiled at me like that, a strange thing happened: my anger, for a moment, simply subsided, replaced by an inexplicable warmth. I could look at that smile all day. Mina! Snap out of it! My internal voice, the one that usually kept me sharp and focused, was screaming.

“Well, you should stop,” I glared at him, trying desperately to regain my composure, to rebuild the walls he so effortlessly seemed to crumble.