Sunset Sanctuary

by R J Castiglione

  Sunset Sanctuary

  RJ Castiglione

  RJ Castiglione Books

  Sunset Sanctuary

  RJ Castiglione

  Copyright © 2020 by RJ Castiglione Books. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Introduction

  Sunset Sanctuary touches on a topic that was difficult for me to write, detailing in a very personal way through the use of first-person perspective the thoughts and experiences of the fictional character of Adam Frost, a domestic abuse victim.

  While I have never personally experienced domestic violence, I know many who may read this book have. I’ve taken pains to make sure I portray an honest and gentle experience for the main character wherever possible.

  During the midst of writing the first draft, a friend of mine lost her life to domestic violence. Her story has been fictionalized and written into Sunset Sanctuary in remembrance of her (the character of Debbie). Names and details were changed or omitted to respect her family’s privacy.

  In honor of my friend and with respect toward the subject matter, 10% of the proceeds of all sales of this book for the next year (until March 2021) will be donated to the National Domestic Abuse Hotline:

  https://www.thehotline.org/help/

  If you or anyone you know is suffering abuse, please know there are people able to listen and help. Go to the website above to chat live with someone, or call their number at 1-800-799-SAFE. Please find your path to safety. With that said, I hope you enjoy the story.

  Contents

  1. Day 1

  2. Evening 1

  3. Day 4

  4. Day 5

  5. Day 7

  6. Evening 7

  7. Evening 15

  8. Evening 15 - Part 2

  9. Day 19

  10. Evening 19

  11. Morning 20

  12. Afternoon 22

  13. Morning 26

  14. Afternoon 26

  15. Morning 27

  16. Afternoon 27

  17. Afternoon 31

  About the Author

  One Last Thing

  1

  Day 1

  A few outfits, old sneakers, my cell phone, and a thousand dollars — the contents of my worn satchel the TSA saw as I stood in the airport security line, feet firmly planted on the footprint mat below. I waited for my pat down to end so I could be done with this and get to my gate.

  A TSA agent mouthed me a shallow apology after ripping the fabric on my tattered bag, but I didn’t care about the satchel enough to mind. It wasn’t significant to me. It was my “safety” bag. I joked about it in my head dozens of times when I saw it hidden in the trunk of my car, should I ever gather enough courage to run away. Worse, however, was passing it off as a gym bag when my now ex-boyfriend spotted it. Still, the bag was now split down the middle, held together only by a linen patch with “Adam Frost” sewed on.

  I was nervous, sweating, and anxious to get through security and onto the plane before the pain drugs wore off. I picked at the itchy abrasions on my arm, some framed by yellow and purple bruises, doing my best to distract myself from other injuries I tried to hide—a clotted gash on my scalp, a black eye, and some bruised ribs. The fact that I was a mess must have contributed to my being flagged for additional screenings.

  The bag-ripper waved me to his table, looking me over once or twice before focusing on the hospital bracelet around my wrist.

  “Sir, are you all right?” the man asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, clenching my jaw in pain as I reached into a pocket, pulling out a slip of paper and handing it to the man, hoping it might speed things along.

  The agent’s attitude changed as he read the slip, transforming in an instant from passive boredom to a more genuine concern. Through the back of the paper, I could make out the outlines of “Police Report” read in reverse. The slip detailed the events of the last twenty-four hours before I decided to flee the hospital instead of seeing things through to the end.

  The man returned the paper, pushed my bag toward me, and waved me into the terminal. I was quick to collect my meager belongings while an obnoxious woman behind me faked a sigh at how slow I moved.

  I sat down with my bag and traded my slippers for a pair of ratty sneakers, rounding out my “I look like I have a hangover” ensemble. I winced after pulling my leg up to tighten the laces but gave up before I could reach my foot. With loose sneakers being the least of my troubles, I collected my pack and crept further into the airport at a pace that would make snails bored.

  My phone vibrated. I flipped the screen up to find a few dozen missed texts, five new voicemails, and forty missed calls. I answered the current incoming call from Luana Frost, my mother.

  “Good Lord, Adam! Where have you been?” my mother asked.

  “It’s all right, Mom. I just got released from the hospital.” My voice cracked against the lie. I didn’t want to let her know I checked myself out against the doctor’s wishes.

  “Just some scrapes and bruises. I’m okay. I’m at the airport.” My voice trailed off. My heart skipped a beat as I sensed her concern through the phone, fingers turning white as I clenched the tiny device in my hand. I hated lying to her, especially considering she could always tell.

  “Did he—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Mom! I’m losing it here, and I’m getting on a plane. I’m going home.” My mother tried to speak again but I didn’t let her get a word in. “We discussed this already. Auntie is expecting me. I need to get away from all this. I’m sorry, I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  She sniffled, a sign she was trying her best to choke back her tears.

  “I can’t do this now, Mom. I’ll call you when I get settled.”

  I hung up the phone before she tried to change my mind. I wasn’t going to stay in Atlanta, plus the tickets were already purchased. I was finally escaping. My heart pounded, and I had trouble catching my breath. The buzz of the drugs faded and panic began settling in. A few bruised ribs didn’t help any. As the world started to close in on me, I fought against an impending panic attack. Not here. Not now. Nervous energy pulsed through my brain like a faulty power transformer. My hands began to tremble.

  Taking a few deep breaths to calm down, I gathered myself and offered my boarding pass to a young woman at the departure gate. She scanned it and motioned for me to board, although she looked worried after noticing my black eye. I took one look back, down the long hallway of Atlanta International Airport, and thought about the city that had been my home for half my life, the city that first nurtured me before beating me to a pulp, and now, spitting me out.

  My eyes began to water as I regretted leaving my mother and sister, Maria, behind. They were the only people who knew my full story. They knew why I was running away and from who I was hiding. They wanted me to stay, to face my ex, and to put him in jail, but I had no interest in seeing it through. I certainly didn’t want to confront him in a courtroom.

  The single thought that dominated my mind was to escape to the island. To get as far away as I could to a place where the last few years couldn’t follow m
e.

  I looked at the faces of some young men already seated on the plane. Some of them reminded me of myself five years ago: bright-eyed eighteen-year-olds with tight asses and the whole world at their disposal. They practically twitched at the prospects of love, lust, and alcohol in the years to come.

  I leaned patiently against the seat next to me and cracked a tense smile at a young woman with her children blocking my way, reminding me of my mother when she first put us on the plane to Atlanta almost fifteen years before.

  As I claimed my own narrow, no-leg-room economy chair, my mood soured even more. Pain jolted through my torso and throbbed in my ears. From the moment the police spotted me unconscious in the street, and the ambulance sped me to the hospital until now, I hadn’t a moment to process things. And with my bruised ribs, I indeed didn’t have the energy to breathe and relax. A flight attended passed by me.

  “Sir, are you okay?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Just my back, miss. I threw it out a little.” I bit the words out through my clenched teeth.

  “I’ll take some ibuprofen,” I finished as the muscle spasms subsided. Seeing me able to relax in my chair was enough to ease the attendant’s concern. She walked away to assist other passengers.

  I popped a pill I fished from my pocket and swallowed it dry—a healthy dose of OTC painkillers from the hospital a concerned nurse gave me on my way out. As I flipped through missed calls on my phone, I began to relax more.

  “Jeff. Jeff. Jeff. Mom. Jeff. Jeff. Jeff. Jeff. Mom,” I muttered to myself. I turned my phone off and put it away, fastened my seatbelt, and closed my eyes to block the sun’s glare as it shined through the narrow window next to me.

  I brushed my fingers through my black hair and felt a shock as I touched the wound Jeff Thatcher, my ex, gave to me: a dirty ashtray to my head. I reviewed the last few years in Atlanta and how much trouble I’d gotten myself into. How did I fall so deeply in love with a man who treated me like shit? Why did I endure so many beatings? Why did I let him dismantle me so? Why did I still make myself believe that it was my fault? Could it have been avoided?

  “Fucking stop,” I muttered as the painkiller kicked in. I leaned against the window’s cold glass and fell asleep, ready and waiting for my timely return to my childhood home: to the island. To the mountain. To Maui.

  “Sir?”

  I shot upright and winced as my ribs throbbed.

  “Sir, we’ve arrived. You need to disembark now.”

  I looked around, eyes heavy with sleep. “Where are we? Why hasn’t the plane taken off?” The last thing I recalled was shuffling from one gate to the next at LAX for my connecting flight. I looked around me and wondered about the empty plane.

  The attendant laughed. “It has. We’re here. Welcome to Maui.” The young man waved his arms down the aisle of the plane and instructed me again to disembark. My heart skipped a beat as I looked him over from head to toe. He looked a bit too much like Jeff with his broad shoulders, thin nose, and square jaw.

  I blinked a few times, still groggy, collected my bag, and left the empty plane. Stepping off the loading bridge, I looked around the airport. It hadn’t changed in years: one long hangar with so many windows it felt like I was already outside.

  It was late afternoon by the time I made my way out of the airport. I was glad to have no luggage as I pushed my way through the large crowd of tourists waiting for their massive suitcases, golf clubs, and child seats. To any local, I supposed I looked like any other island hopper heading home from Honolulu for the day. Everything felt perfect. Maui was my home, after all. Just like my mother and sister, I was born here. My father was a mainlander and married my mother after being stationed on O’ahu. I went to elementary school here and then left. My dad dragged us to the mainland where nothing made sense—and then left us when he got bored. It took my mom years to admit to herself that it wasn’t her fault. The man just didn’t want a family.

  The air in Atlanta was different. It lacked the sweetness that I knew and loved. On the mainland, where the ocean was nowhere in sight, I often felt I was missing a security blanket. The winters were too cold. The summers were too hot, humid, and absent the gentle trade winds that turned even the warmest day into complete paradise. My father yanked away what I knew and loved and replaced it with a sprawling, urban jungle: a concrete wasteland with too much noise and traffic and people. And folks in Atlanta never felt quite right. They were kind enough, aside from Jeff, but they weren’t ohana. They weren’t family.

  At the curb, I sat down and looked around me. I could see the afternoon clouds pushing their way up to Haleakala’s peak to the southeast and the continuous cloud layer over Waikapu. I smiled at a pair of roosters fighting for dominance over a flock of hens only twenty feet away. As expected, the island hadn’t changed at all. Even the clouds were the same. Maui was all very comforting, all very predictable.

  I slung my pack over my shoulder and walked toward the shuttles, flinching as the strap grazed the wound on my scalp. I was still very much in pain, and the ride to Lahaina was very long this time of day, with all the tourists on their way to the resort strip.

  “Howzit, cuz!”

  I spun around at the sound of an all-too-familiar voice. I couldn’t help but grin. Waiting at the curb, a giant hulk of a man raised his arms to his side to greet me with his broad shoulders, big gut, and a yellow bandana tied around his shaved head.

  “Tad!” I said as I hustled as best as I could toward him.

  Tad started to wrap me into a bear hug, but I cringed and backed away, afraid of the pain it would cause. He looked concerned. “When Auntie called and told us you was coming, we couldn’t believe it. My little cuz back from the mainland.” Tad inspected me and saw the bruises on my arms, pain in my eyes, and the egg on my scalp. He grimaced a bit but started leading me away.

  “What have they been doing to you over there? You look like a haole!” Tad let out a giant belly laugh.

  I knew I was pale and skinny. The mainland made you that way. Hours working in a gaming and comic book store didn’t help, either. I realized I was supposed to work again and never called to quit. Given that we broke ten customers on a good day, I knew it wasn’t going to be a problem. It wasn’t like I was going to make a career out of stocking comic books, laughing at nerd rage, and providing tabletop gamers their chance at a fix. Still, it was a job with people I liked.

  “Adam!” Tad gently punched my shoulder. “Where did ya go?”

  Tad pulled open the door to his truck. It squealed on its hinges and bobbed up and down as though it would fall off at any moment. It was a rust bucket if I ever saw one. Remnants of blue paint peeked out from behind a thick layer of rust and mud. I recalled all too well the cost of island living: anything metal turned to rust a hundred times faster than anywhere on the mainland. I climbed into the truck as best I could and sank back into the worn passenger seat that felt like it would swallow me whole. Moments later, the engine lurched to life. We sped off to join the line of rental cars driven by dreary-eyed tourists on their way to their condos and hotels.

  “Sorry, cuz,” I yelled over the noise of the engine. “Just needed to get away from a few things at home. Auntie said she could use my help with the inn. I thought I’d take her up on that offer.”

  Tad nodded at me. He perked one cheek up into a half-grin. “She sure could. I’m working all day. The house is falling apart. It needs some mad TLC.”

  I recalled the old estate from my childhood. Despite being on such a small island, it always felt grand. Closing my eyes, I imagined the after-school bike rides to my aunt’s two-story colonial home. The building stuck out like a precious gem among an ocean of condos or cottage style homes, although locals often considered it more of an eyesore.

  In my mind, it was painted the whitest of white with dozens of windows on all sides. The western windows faced the beach for the most beautiful sunsets behind Lanai. The sunrise over the eastern mountains brought with it a soft fog that am
plified the white sand beach. The water was always sapphire blue. And at night, I could be lulled to sleep by the constant sound of ocean waves heard anywhere in the house. I even lived there after my mother and father sold their home before moving to the mainland.

  In my heart, however, the house had always called to me. It was heaven, comprised of bottomless pitchers of POG juice, body surfing, and trays full of malasadas, a pastry treat Auntie made her specialty after she learned the recipe from a construction worker who helped her build the house decades before.

  It was all so stereotypically Hawaiian. I was not without grand memories of my childhood, island paradise.

  My day-dreaming could have gone on for hours, if not for Tad. He stopped the truck halfway to Lahaina as traffic slowed to a crawl.

  “Damn haoles! Why they all have to land the same time!” he said, angered by the traffic jam. He punched the radio to turn it on: a low-volume recap of the mainland’s greatest hits.

  My ears perked up. “You’re not upset about just the traffic, are you? There’s always traffic.”

  “About damn time, brah. Thought the plane ride made you mute.” He threw a granola bar from his cup holder into my lap, but I set it aside.

  “Just pissed. Auntie worked hard on that house. It’s her pride and joy; a mainlander’s home away from home, ya know? And now the haoles all stay at the massive resorts with all their fancy restaurants, bars, and fake luaus.”

  Without looking, he pulled the car off the road and into a parking area of some new trailhead I didn’t recognize. I looked around and saw some locals working under their rust buckets while chickens ran around looking for their next meal.