As his consciousness surfaced, Jack opened his eyes to see a woman smiling back at him. He gasped, “Who are you?”, scooting as far back as he could go.
“Relax,” the woman placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been shot.”
His right hand flew to his side, bracing for the wetness from the blood and searing-hot pain. Instead, his fingers felt the rough padding of gauze and cotton. “Who are you?” He asked quickly.
The woman lowered her head and gazed at him with her liquid-blue eyes. At once, he felt a sense of familiarity. Where have I seen those eyes before? “Oh, you know who I am.” She smiled.
“Um no, I don’t.” He replied. Despite the familiarity, he couldn’t pull a name from his head.
“Oh yes, Jack. All you have to do is wake up.” Her last words echoed. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
“Jack, wake up.” He heard another voice followed by a searing pain that knocked his head sideways, jolting him awake.
“You got shot and somehow managed to crawl into this little wooden shack in the middle of nowhere.” His FBI partner, Diana, informed him with a hint of annoyance.
A Response for Sunday Photo Fiction.