The Island

Evacuate

Jordyn

I stare at the man dressed in black--the man I've only seen in flashbacks and dreams. The lines on his face tell a story of worry and age, crinkling around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. His skin, which may have once been the same shade of white as mine, is marred with freckles and age spots.

Neither one of us say anything. Yet, his eyes run down my frame and devour every visible bump and bruise, from my matted, dreaded hair to my burned, bare legs and filthy feet.

When he makes it back up to my face, his facial expression changes from worry to relief. I watch the muscles unclench themselves, the eyes settle into a calmer position, and the hands slide to rest at his side.

"Jordyn," he whispers, striding across the short distance between us.

My island instinct kicks back in, and I take a shaky step back from the stranger in front of me. No, he's not a stranger. He's my father. That much is obvious in how we look alike. Yet, somehow, I don't know the man standing in front of me.

Thomas hesitates, his arms poised to raise towards me, watching my movement. I take another step back and begin to breathe in short gasps. A hand presses into my shoulder.

Ezra's face appears beside my ear. His blonde hair brushes against the soft skin beneath it.

"He won't hurt you," he whispers softly. "I promise."

"And if he does?" I reply, just as quiet as he was.

"Then, I am right here. Sam and I both have your back, Jordyn."

I look back up at the man in front of me. His eyes are back to that serious state. They hold a world of concern between the lines of brown and gold. I'm the cause of that. He's worried about me. I take a deep breath and nod. Thomas takes that as his cue, and with a return nod, he finishes crossing the distance and wraps his arms around me.

I know I should feel something.

I should be stirred by an ocean of emotions, brought to tears by my father rescuing me from the Hell I've faced, choked up to see the man I had forgotten existed. My knees should be weak, and I ought to feel my heart slamming into my ribcage.

Instead, I just feel arms, heavy and hot, wrapped around my body. My own limbs pull down on my shoulders, and gravity urges me to collapse onto the ground. I am choked by his grip, not emotion. I'm brought to tears by the fact that his hands press into my burns. The hug brings nothing but pain.

I don't know this man.

Thomas lets me go after what feels like the longest minute of my life. He grips both of my shoulders and stares down at me with eyes laced with Earth. I glance at them for a moment and then lower my eyes. His hand grazes my cheek, and I stiffen. Just let him. It'll be over soon.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly.

"Define okay," I manage to get out. That familiar knot is back in my throat, the one that reared its head when I first met the other prisoners.

"It was a stupid question in the first place," he mumbles. "Of course you're not okay. But you're in one piece."

I glance down at myself. Am I? Outwardly, I guess I am. Inwardly? Not so much.

"I'm breathing, I guess," I finally say. "I'm fine."

"Jordyn, I'm--"

Someone shouting cuts him off mid-sentence, and I relax a little. The last thing I need is an apology to add to the weird emotions going through my stomach.