"The unknown enemy is always the most fearsome."

- George R.R Martin

{Editing Status: Unedited}

I don't know how I got here. I don't remember anything. My memories, my past; a blur - a hazy, nebulous cloud. I don't even remember my own name. All I know is that I am lying on sand; I can feel it under my fingers, soft and thick. I stare up at the sun as it glares down at me. I don't sit up, as I am paralyzed with fear, my heart beat a rapid thudding against my ribs. My breathing is shallow and forced; the air is humid, so I am struggling to breathe. I lick my dry, cracked lips.

And I sit up.

The first thing I see is the ocean. It sparkles in the sun, casting diamonds of brilliance, blinding me. It is clear and blue and beautiful.

And I think:

Am I dead?

Maybe this is heaven.

Or, maybe this is hell, and I am about to be tortured any minute.

I stand up, my legs shaking slightly as I lift myself up from the sand. I walk, slowly, over to the water, and kneel down, reaching my trembling fingers to touch the water. It is warm, not cold, as I was expecting. I look out to the ocean, but there is nothing. Just the vast body of water; no islands, no ships. Nothing. It seemed to be infinite. The soft rushing of the water calms me slightly; there are no waves. It is flat and serene. I stand up and turn around.

And I almost fall back to the ground.

A forest is an understatement, to describe the immeasurable jungle in front of me. The sand carries on for some time and slowly turns into dark soil, which the prodigious trees grow out of. The jungle is dark and quiet. Eerily quiet, in fact. I squint, but I cannot see through the trees, as they are too dense, and the darkness expands through the jungle.

I look to my side, and the beach carries on; I cannot see the end of it.

How did I get here?

What is this place?

I lick my dry lips again, thoughts crossing back and forth in my head.

So many questions.

So little answers.

I feel disorientated, and the sun isn't helping my "don't faint" thoughts. The heat of it, the intensity of it, is making me slightly dizzy.

"Hey!" shouts a voice. A female voice. I spin around, trying to find where the voice is coming from. I can faintly see a person on the beach in the distance. As the girl comes closer, I can make out her features better. She is short, and skin as white as snow, with long, blonde hair that is tied into a high ponytail. My heart thuds against my chest at the sight of another living being; it radiates through my body, pounding against my rib cage, and a rapid thudding in my eardrums.

What the hell is going on here?

When she comes even closer, I see that her eyes are a dazzling sapphire blue, sparkling in the sunlight. Dirt smears her forehead and cheeks, and her skin is covered in a layer of sweat; a drop even slides down her forehead and onto her cheek, sliding down onto her bottom lip. Her cheeks are slightly on the chubby side like she never lost the puppy fat. She is fairly pretty, but not overly beautiful. The only thing that stands out on her plain face is her sea-blue eyes.

"Where did you come from?" I ask. My voice is scratchy and sore like I had previously lost my voice, and I am still recovering. Where did she come from? It's like she appeared from thin air. Her high-arched eyebrows raise as she studies me, a confused look on her face. The fear is irrefutable in her brilliant eyes.

"I was in a plane crash," the girl stutters. There is a small scratch above her cheekbone and just below her eye, freshly cut, and a large gash across her forehead, bloody, but not gushing. The wound isn't open, but I can see infection threatens it. My stomach clenches itself at the sight of the dirty red substance.

"A plane crash?" I whisper.

She nods. She looks about 19, although I'm not entirely sure. I think that is how old I am, too, but I can't seem to remember. My head is filled with confused thoughts, and there isn't any room for more.

"I was on a plane," she says, sitting on the sand, and staring at the ocean, her blue eyes wide. "I was on a plane, and we crashed. That's all I remember."

I sit beside her. "I think if I were in a plane crash, I'd remember," I tell her.

She tears her eyes away from the ocean and looks at me, her pupils constricted, as if there were no pupil there.

"I don't remember seeing you on the plane," she says. "But, then again, I don't remember much from the crash."

"Were there any other survivors?" I ask.

She shrugs. "I'm not sure. I do remember there were others on the plane with me. Most of them teenagers. But when I opened my eyes I was alone." She frowns at me. "You don't remember being on the plane?"

I shake my head. "I don't remember anything at all. Not even my name."

"That's weird," she says.

I laugh, without humor. "Yeah, I know." I stand up, and offer her my hand. She takes it and stands up. "I think we should go and look if there were any other survivors. Then we can try and get off this island."

She raises an eyebrow and looks out at the vast expansion of ocean.

"I don't think there's any chance of that happening anytime soon."

"We can try," I say. We start walking in the way the blonde girl came. "What's your name? You can at least remember it, right?"

"Saige," she says. "Saige Fischer."

"You're lucky you know what your name is."

She looks at me. "Why don't you remember?"

I shrug. "I wish I knew."

"Maybe you suffered a head injury in the crash -"

"I wasn't on that plane," I say, firmly. "And do you see any evidence of a head wound?"

She shakes her head. "No," she admits. "It's just weird, that's all."

The heat is unbearable as we walk, our feet sinking in the thick, hot sand.

"Why were you on a plane?" I ask her.

"I'm not sure. I don't remember anything. I remember waking up on this island, but that's all I remember."

"Weird," I say.

"Weird," she agrees, with a small, shaky laugh.

"Where did you wake up?" I ask.

She points to a cluster of rocks in the near distance. "There," she says. "But there was no sign of the wreckage."

"And you say that you were alone when you woke up?"

She nods. "Yeah, but there were others on the plane with me. I'm not sure how many, though. As I said, they were mostly teenagers, about my age. I never spoke to them, though, and they never spoke to me. We were silent, apart from when the plane was crashing, of course. I screamed a lot," she admits.

"Do you remember how the plane crashed in the first place?"

She shakes her head. "All I remember is hearing a crack of thunder. The plane must have been brought down by the storm," she says.

"Makes sense."

We carry on walking until we reach the rocks. There are a few splatters of blood on the sand, probably from Saige's cut on her head.

"You should bandage that up," I say, looking at the cut on her forehead.

"Does it look like I have a bandage?"

I laugh and shake my head. "I guess not. Be careful it doesn't get infected, though," I warn.

"It's just a cut. It'll be fine. I'd rather die anyway than be stuck on this island."

I shrug. "Touché."

We sit on the rocks in silence, listening to the soft sound of the ocean washing up on the shore. As the sun sets over the ocean, I am grateful for the slight breeze that picks up, taking the heat away.

Questions float around in my head, unanswered and unanswerable.

Why am I here?

Where am I?

Why can't I remember my name?

Who am I, actually?

There had to be some answers for this absurdity. The fact that I can't remember anything before this island worried, and confused me, profoundly. Fear and uncertainty pour through my veins, but I try and not show it on my face. I want to stay strong. Not for Saige - whoever she is - but for myself.

Because even if I don't know who I am, I can still be strong. Strength seems like a necessity on this island.

"We should build a fire," I suggest, glancing at the immense jungle behind us.

"I ain't going in there," Saige says, looking at the jungle.

"Ever thought about driftwood?"

"Well, have you seen any?"

"Nope," I admit.

"Well then, that's your answer," she says, crossing her arms over her knees, and resting her chin on her arms.

"There's a breeze picking up, Saige," I tell her. "It looks like it's going to be cold tonight. We'll freeze."

"Let us," she sighs. "I don't care."

"You're fine. You're wearing a jersey. I'm not." I am wearing a white t-shirt and white shorts, strangely pristine; there is no dirt on them, like they have been freshly washed. She, on the other hand, is wearing a light blue jersey and white jeans.

She sighs. "I'll gladly give it to you. You obviously want to live."

"Of course I want to live. I want to get off this island, Saige. I don't want to die here. I have no clue how we both got here, but right now I think that's the last thing we should be thinking about. I don't want to die."

She looks at me, her eyes sad. "To a smart mind," she mutters. "Death is but the next big adventure."

"And what great philosopher said that?" I ask her.

The corner of her mouth lifts slightly.

"Me."

A/N

First chapter = done!

I've been thinking how to write this chapter all week, and I finally sat down and wrote it, haha. I can't wait to write the next one.

Don't forget to like, comment and share!

Thanks guys.

Olivia J. Clarke

{Picture: Saige Fischer - Abigail Breslin}

© Olivia Clarke 2016

Lost {Book 1 - The Quarantine Series}