Marco woke up under a pond of cold perspiration; The dream ended abruptly, and for the first time, he did not have to suffer through the night.
"Sail east, follow the sun. It would lead you," he mouthed as he got up from the bed. He couldn't help but be apprehensive of the few oddly spoken words. "Well, isn't this is a first? the entities inside my dreams would regularly talk between themselves; that's when I was able to pick up their language, but they never tried to speak to me— not until now."
"Can I even trust them? What if I'm really just bat-shit crazy," Marco chuckled.
Though he wasn't entirely off—medication can help drill loose screws, but what comes about if the patient was already fine? Undrilled ones?
Marco stood up at the center of the room, hands behind his head; he could feel the pale sunshine light beginning to creep in. He has only one chance; he needs to find a way to reach the yard.
"Stay here; I would handle this," a voice sounded behind the door.
Marco heard the noise and quickly dived on his bed, pretending to sleep.
Alan, the same Warden that took care of him since he was at the age of ten, peered inside.
Once close enough, he started to steer Marco up; even though the lad was well ahead of his teenage years, he still retained the habit of calling him "kid."
Marco turned around; what could they want for him today? He was denied access to the yard, and soon around noon, each of the patients would be injected with their selective medications. Which, in his case, would lead to his end.
He saw that Alan had a tray in his hands, a tint of guilt wrapped around his aging face; it would be a lie if he claimed he did not pity the kid.
Marco recognized the complexion, too; it was the same complexion his dad gave him 12 years ago—Maybe he could use that; Maybe just maybe it might work.
"Sympathy," Marco muttered; he learned to use it plenty in here, with the cooks for extra food, for the TV he was gifted, and most dear to him, for the admission to enter the library, where he learned about the outside world primarily reading archeological related topics.
"Breakfast in bed, kid," Alan said gruffly, putting the tray where his eyes can see.
Marco took a deep breath, getting up and straightening himself.
"Father Alan?" Marco innocently said, wiping his bleary eyes.
Alan grunted at the way Marco addressed him
Marco looked at the plain plate of food and bitterly asked, "Does this place offer any last meals? I would love to try a blueberry tart before I die."
Alan felt even more guilt; he had done this before, and each time, he felt a piece of his heart benumbed. "No, kid, I can't help you in this one; it's beyond my power,"
"Such pity," Marco responded as he reached for the aluminum tray, "Then, how about letting me visit the yard? Just allow me five minutes; I want to say goodbye to Grandpa Noah and that Rascal Mino,"
Alan sighed, toughening himself for the upcoming rejection.
"I really can'—"
Thud!
Before he even completed his sentence, the tray flared his head back, sending him straight to the ground. Marco quickly stood up. Did he bash a Warden's head out?
He might have just did, and oddly enough, he felt no grief while doing it.
Marco checked the fallen man's pulse, "He is still breathing," he confirmed, skulking his way toward the door. Lenore was standing behind it, reading what looked like a Vogue magazine.
Marco slipped an arm from the ajar door, grabbing her wrist. Lenore glanced aside; she did not even have the time to fight Marco's hand; she could only faintly see one bloodshot eye crazily peeking at her from the crack of the door as the arm steered her into the chamber.
It wasn't long till her mouth sailed and keys forcefully jerked from her side.
Marco himself was possibly only half her size, yet, the factor of surprise helped him immensely gain reign over her.
He pressed her to the ground and then galloped outside, slamming the door behind him before she can even realize what had struck her.
And just like that, the timer was set. Now he needed to worry about the other wardens, especially the black-suited ones; those are dangerous.
He ran along several corridors under the eyes of startled patients. He could not bother to wear the warden's uniform. First, he was the only person under 5'6 in the whole hospital. Secondly, his face was ugly enough to be easily recognized.
Just around a corner, he discerned the entrance leading up to the yard about 200 meters far, but then he heard footsteps behind; three wardens were on the pursuit.
"Shit!" He cursed; the entrance was not open yet, and they will surely catch up if he attempted to open it with Lenore's ring of keys.
"Which one of them is even the right one!" Marco squealed, not daring to look back.
Pat! Pat! Pat! He sprinted as fast as he could.
On the way, he noticed stools and chairs stacked on the side, a plump man on the front frantically conversing with them.
"King Edward the third?" he wondered.
Like how the Apple fell on Newton's head, an idea also fell in Marco's brain.
"Your Mastery!" He yelled, not halting for once, "Those imbeciles behind me are trying to invade our beloved empire,"
"What! Who would dare!" King Edward pretended to unsheathe an imaginary sword and launched himself on the encroachers.
The Black-suited wardens halted, trying to restrain the demented man.
That bought a great deal of time for Marco.
Lungs burning, he grabbed a two big packs of bread from one of the chairs. King Edward liked his subjects well-fed, and the wardens couldn't help but yield to his demands.
Sprinting down those long rectangular tunnels, he finally reached the yard entrance.
He briskly pulled the keys and began with the bigger ones.
"Curse you! Come on!" He rehearsed, trying the first key, and failing.
He can now see the guards already restraining king Edward and soon would be catching up to him.
"I would not make it!" He realized, pulling the key out of the hole.
But then he encountered a tremendous change of events; Grandpa Noah crossed from somewhere, shouting at the guards, "You shall not lay your filthy hands on my daughter!!"
Marco was stunned but not too stunned not to try the second key. He inserted it and gave it a twirl.
Tick!
The Entrance clonked, and Marco hurriedly shoved it open. He could hear the alarms ringing everywhere, notifying the other guards outside.
"I need to climb the wall," He thought, bare feet slapping the trimmed lawn.
Marco clambered the Wall, the guards pulling at his feet, trying to drag him down. Still, his fun-sized body came in handy; he vaulted the great wall with the skills of a monkey, reaching the summit at an extraordinary speed and leaping straight to the ground.
"Adrenaline is one hell of a drug," he acknowledged after he looked back at the height of the obstacle he just cleared. "Still nothing compared to the next one," He uncomfortably snickered.
Marco landed right beside the little raft, made of crates, planks, and water bottles neatly tied together, hidden below a heap of beakers, broken test tubes, batteries, and empty boxes. The lazy Wardens never bothered to check this place.
He freed the raft from its burden and yanked it to the side.
He looked around; he could now see the raging sea waves below him; he had been here before plenty of times; most of it to catch the fresh gust afforded by the high altitude.
The hospital has been built on the hilltop of a cliff named 'Dark foot.'
'The only way to make a descent is to round the hospital toward the front—toward the gates.' He deduced, but too bad the guards had already jumped the wall and now surrounding him from each side. "There is no way I can go that way," Marco glanced at the edge of the cliff, contemplating the idea of a possible jump.
"Drop the raft, nobody going to get hurt today," Marco heard a masculine voice; he pivoted his neck, still pulling the raft toward the ridge's edge.
"Nelson?" He recognized the man, trotting toward him from the far corner of the wall.
"What you are doing is a suicide, plain Madness!" He pressed on after discerning Marco's plan, sprinting and cursing at the guards to interfere.
Marco, however, already reached the rim, pushing the raft with his feet down the sea.
He paused, scrutinizing his eyes down. Marco never got the chance to use the raft; he had no idea if it could float.
The raft slapped the water, submerging a bit and ultimately raising and landing on its hull.
Meanwhile, Marco staled for time, taking one last glimpse at the livid Doctor.
"Stop him! You idiots, Stop him Now!"
"If I stay, I'm a dead man; I'd rather give myself to the sea than to a piece of shit like you!" Marco clenched his teeth, raising his middle finger to the air.
"See you in hell!" He screamed and hopped down the cliff.
...
Twenty-one seconds Marco spent in the air before landing in the water, feet first.
The force of the impact almost made him blackout; he might have shattered a rib or two, and most definitely, his left ankle broke.
He dived inside, and just before he completely sank down, his body came to life, head magically popping up to the surface.
Marco spat out a mouthful of water.
"The raft," He remembered, scanning the area with his sodden vision.
"There," he thought, swimming to the raft amidst the swelling water tides. Fortunately, the sea waves did not drag it far, and he soon reached it.
Boarding up, he laid down, feet almost dangling out.
"No time for rest," Marco said, grabbing a wood plank and paddled in the direction of the sun.
Soon, he was far from the sight of the island; Nelson would need at least an hour down towards the dock if he ever wishes to chase after him.
Marco checked the quantity of provisions he possessed, "Two packs of toasts, four liters of water," He counted, grabbing one of the bread packs, ripping it, and snatching two pieces out of it. "This is all I will have for tonight," he grumbled, a sea wave whacking him from behind.
"If I portioned this well enough, I would be able to survive for about a week," Marco mumbled.
...
Marco drifted for uncounted days; water and food had already expired, and so was every little bit of his energy.
It might have been the scorching sun that caused his fever, or maybe the mental and physical strain his body had to endure, but currently, he could not generate an ounce of the power he once possessed.
His hopes of passing ships were already crushed, and he most likely would die soon of famine if thirst did not catch up to him first.
"Might as well just cast myself down to the sea," He deliriously whispered, attempting to rise up, yet his body was too heavy— too heavy even to move a finger.
At that moment, an eerie sleepness descended on him; Marco acknowledged it as death, but not quite that yet. It was sweet, he admitted, cosmically sweet and exuberantly powerful.
He did not even have the chance to fight It before it pulled him swiftly under its clutches, and after a while, he knew of his world no longer.