I stand on the cusp of the island’s toothy smile. Cries of agony echo behind me; before me is absolute silence. Underneath my feet, the ground is caked in red, but I am not sure if it is the reflection of the crimson skies above or the blood of the inmates of this island.
This is a prison. It is a prison that drains a lot out of a person, enough that no one can even remember what crime he or she committed in the first place. As far as I can tell, I was born in this prison, and have been here ever since. And now I stand on this rocky ledge, a gruff guard standing beside me.
“You’ve done your time,” he growls indifferently. He hands me a slip of paper and a bag.
The slip only reads, “There is a heaven.”
“Treat this slip as if it were your very life,” the guard says.
And I set my feet onto the creaky wooden bridge that extends into the red sky, swinging back and forth over a canyon that is so deep that it seems to be above the clouds and the sky.