Hours or perhaps just minutes later, I hear the door open again. He walks in and gestures for me to get up. I obey. I’m like a puppy—feed me and let me out to pee, and I’ll be grateful.
He lets me use the restroom alone this time. I’m thankful. When I finish, instead of going back up the stairs to my tower of doom like he indicates, I turn to face him.
“I know you said no questions, but I have to know. What are you planning on doing with me?”
I have a million other questions, like what is Isla Culebrita? Why are we here? Who was the man you murdered? Why did you murder him and not me? Where did the food come from? Can I take a walk on the beach so that I can study my surroundings to orient myself? Can I have more water?
He hesitates. I see it in his eyes. In the daylight, his eyes are much lighter. Confusion spreads across his face as his hands swipe across his lips. He’s not wearing his boots anymore. In fact, he changed his entire outfit. Now he’s wearing jeans, a grey t-shirt, and a navy blue baseball cap. He’s barefoot. I don’t know why that unsettles me so much—as if he’s obviously comfortable in this situation. I suppose he has no reason not to be. He’s the one holding me captive; not the other way around. I want to ask him where he got the change of clothes, but that can wait.
“I said, I don’t know,” he growls angrily.
“So you’re just going to keep me locked up there forever?” I retort, ready for the onslaught. Fucking kill me, I think bitterly. “I’d rather end it all then be kept here as your fucking prisoner. I’ve seen the stories about those women who come home after years in captivity. I don’t want to be like that—a shell, a victim, a different person. I liked who I was—who I am. And I’m the most impatient person on the planet. I’d much rather die than have to entertain myself for years to come in that prison cell. That’s my version of Hell. So if you’re going to kill me, just do it now. Put me out of my misery.”
He looks shocked, which in turn shocks me. He has to know this is my own worst nightmare. I’m not afraid of death. In fact, I’d like to think I’m pretty brave on that front. I might even be able to handle captivity if he were to give me some canvas and paints, or a friend to talk to. I’m an extrovert. I’m social by nature. Alone, I would drive myself insane in a matter of days. I almost drove myself insane last night, and that was only a few hours.
“We’re not staying here, if that answers your question,” he says roughly. He squints at me. “I’m just trying to figure out what the next step is.” His honesty startles me. I expected another outburst telling me to shut the fuck up. I didn’t expect candor.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I can deal with that.” I tuck my hands in my armpits. I venture one last question. “If it’s okay with you, may I please take a shower?”
The corners of his mouth tick up ever so slightly, but he doesn’t allow himself to smile fully. “There’s a bathtub in the other bathroom. I’ll wait outside the door.” Again, his forthrightness is surprising. I half-expected him to choke me again, or at least laugh maniacally. He gestures for me to follow him. Even though he’s being unusually truthful, I still don’t trust him at all. The kernel of doubt still sits in my mind, waiting for him to attack.
We go to the other door in the main room—the bottom of the lighthouse. As we enter, I’m taken aback at the bed, drawer, and desk in the bedroom. The bed is small and simple, made of wood, and the sheets are white and crisp. It’s not nice, per se, but I wouldn’t complain if I had to sleep in it. The desk and dresser have matching wood, and I see a small duffel bag at the foot of the bed. That explains his change of clothing. It smells like stale cigars and mildew.
“How did you even know about this place?” I ask, looking around in awe. It’s not like we just happened upon this island and found a perfectly set up bedroom. And a prison cell.
“My father used to bring me here.”
My head spins. “But I thought you said it was a National Reserve isl—”
“Enough questions,” he states simply, leading me into a very small bathroom. It’s similar to the one I’ve used, except a small claw foot tub sits in one corner with a small window just next to it. A window. “Like I said last night, if you try anything, I will kill you, no questions asked.”
I nod and walk in. He closes the door behind me. Sighing, I slump down against the door. I want to cry, but I’m too dehydrated and no tears come. I eye the window. It’s small with warped glass, and it doesn’t look like it opens. I’d have to break it. I turn the water on in the bath, looking at the rusty faucet. I tiptoe over to the window and I run my dirty fingers across the pane. Through the distorted glass, I can make out the baby blue of the sky, and the turquoise of the water. I edge up right next to it and cup my hands around my face, trying to get a glimpse of any other islands around. I think I see the green-brown hump of another nearby island, but it could be an illusion. It’s not worth risking my life.
Not right now, at least.
I’m surprised to find a small mirror above the porcelain sink. Walking over, I study my reflection. My neck has a black ring around it from his hands. I massage the bruise, swallowing heavily. My once-white blouse is dirty with beige stains from God-knows-what in random splotches across my very exposed chest. Groaning, I look down at my pink bra. It should be the least of my worries, but I’d rather not have my tits out in front of this guy. I make a note to ask him for a t-shirt when I get done in here.
My long, auburn hair is ratty and tangled, the ponytail long gone now. I feel around for my hair tie, but it must’ve fallen off during one of the struggles. I think of my purse, still sitting on that stupid bench on the beach at the resort.
My face has a small cut on my cheekbone. My makeup has long since washed off, so my bare, freckled face makes me look younger than I am. Maybe I can use that to my advantage. Or maybe it’ll spur him on. He’s a murderer. I wouldn’t put it past him to have other immoral tendencies.
I disrobe, stepping out of my pants. The bottoms are starchy from the salt water. I pull my blouse over my head. My clothing had been hiding most of my bruising, so I gasp when I see my refection in the mirror. I’m covered in bruises. I don’t even remember struggling that much, but apparently my body fought. Hard. I’m like a fucking Dalmatian over here.
Slowly, I remove my matching bra and underwear set. I’m not normally a matching lingerie person, but Garrett was supposed to come over after work yesterday, and I wanted to show the hot pink off. He loved it when I was girly. I wonder for a moment, just as I turn the cascading water off, if he ever showed up. Knowing him, he probably thought I forgot about our casual date and left, not thinking anything of it. Until Rachel called him… I close my eyes.
Should’ve listened to her…
The tub is full now—steaming, aqua blue water that I know is about to turn brown from my filth. I admire the purity for a second before climbing in, the temperature is a little too cool for my taste, but who am I to complain? I lavish in the water, dipping down and submerging my head. I find a bar of soap on the rim of the tub, and I use it generously. The suds do in fact turn brown. I use it in my hair too, ridding every inch of him from my body. The bastard who stole me.
After a few minutes, he knocks. I sit up too suddenly, causing a wave of water to escape the top and splash onto the stone. He doesn’t come in fully—just pops his head in and averts his eyes.
“Time’s up,” he says in a deep voice, and then the door is closed again.
I want to stay here forever. Here, it’s warm and safe. Familiar. Comforting. Out there, I have no idea what’s going to happen next. Solemnly, I stand and get out, dripping. I don’t know why I think of it, but I think of the thick, luxurious towels at the St. Regis. Rachel and I ‘borrowed’ a couple and we use them all the time. Pure white that never stains, thick, organic cotton that absorbs water so easily…
Why am I thinking of my towel at a time like this? I don’t need that towel to survive. I only need my mind.
I reach out for the
too-small hand towel, drying myself as best as I can. I’d rather choke than ask him for something like a towel. I look down at my dirty clothes, and then at the door. Fresh clothes, on the other hand… I creep over and crack it open.
“Is there a way to do laundry?” I ask, pleading. I crane my neck so that my body stays hidden. I hear him come to the door.
“You have perfectly acceptable clothes,” he replies, and I see him meet my eyes through the slit.
Great.
“Okay,” I acquiesce. I have to pick my battles, and right now, clean clothes are low on my list of priorities.
Closing the door, I turn and put my dirty clothes back on. I drain the tub, and as I run my fingers through my knotted hair, I glance once more at the window.
For an escape plan to work, I’d have to be certain. He would no doubt hear the glass breaking.
A plan. I need to formulate a plan.
I swish some water before opening the door slowly. He’s watching me intently from a chair at his desk. I feel vulnerable and small compared to him. I need to find what will break him.
“Thank you,” I say, holding my chin up. “It was nice to have a bath.”
He grunts and turns his attention to a piece of paper on the desk. I realize he’s been studying it. I take a step closer.
“A map,” I say, looking down. His head snaps up and he meets my gaze. Quickly, he folds it and places it in one of the drawers. It was a map of the Caribbean. I know it. I’ve handed out so many of those damn maps to tourists. “You’re trying to figure out the next step,” I add, holding my gaze on his. He breaks first, lowering his eyes to the ground.
I take the opportunity to continue speaking. “You’re wondering how the hell you’re going to get us out of Puerto Rico. You can’t go straight south to Caracas, like I presume you want to, because of the international borders protecting the tropical Caribbean from the onslaught of drugs coming from Venezuela and Colombia. You can’t go east, because again, you’ll meet border patrol protecting the British Virgin Islands and St. Lucia from Puerto Rico. You can’t go west, because there’s too much traffic on the Caribbean Sea, and even if you wanted to go to Mexico, the chances of getting there undetected are slim to none. You can’t go north because you’d hit the east coast of the United States, and they’d blow your fucking brains out before you got close enough. Plus, since I’m a missing American citizen, they’ll be on the lookout for me,” I add, crossing my arms and feeling proud of my knowledge of this part of the world. Now if only I could orient myself and figure out which island I’m on…
He looks unsettled. I suspect he’s come to the very same conclusion on his own. We happen to be somewhat stuck. If it weren’t for all of the policing of the drug cartels, we might be able to go south into Venezuela, but alas, it’s one of the most guarded areas in the world.
He stands and shuffles over to the small window next to his bed. I see him rub his lips with his hand, and then he shoves his hands in his pockets, frustration evident on his rigid posture.
“Fuck,” he hisses, his back to me. “Fuck!”
“Why can’t we just go back?” I suggest. In the twelve or so hours since he’s kidnapped me, I’ve gotten a glimpse of the human inside of him. If I could just convince him to let me go—
“We’re not fucking going back!” he screams, turning on his heel and rushing toward me. Stumbling backwards, I trip over his duffel bag. Then I fall, banging my head on the desk behind me.
My vision blurs, and after a few seconds of silence, I feel tears begin to sting the corners of my eyes.
“Fuck this,” I whisper, my lip trembling. “All I wanted was a fucking mojito. You ruined my life,” I spit at him. Courage fueling through me, I stand, wobbly-kneed, and I lunge forward. “You ruined my life!” I screech, hitting him as hard as I can. I see him shield himself, but I can’t see his face through my tears. “You stole me! Against my will! And now I’m here, tired, hungry, and bruised! I didn’t ask to witness your stupid, secret murder! I don’t want to be here,” I sob, ceasing to fight. Instead, I fall onto my knees and weep into my hands. It’s all I can do.
The minutes drag on, and I don’t know where he goes or what he does, but I feel him leave the room. I fall onto my butt and put my head on my knees as I whimper uncontrollably.
I was able to keep the panic at bay because the adrenaline from last night was keeping me going. Now, I’m just tired. Now, I want to give up. Standing, I crawl out into the main room, where I see him staring out of the window. I don’t even care. I climb the spiral staircase and walk to the revolting blanket in my very own tower of doom. Sniffing it quickly—it doesn’t smell rotten, just old—I slither down onto the ground and tuck my knees into my chest, wrapping the blanket around me as best as I can.
I pray for a forever, dreamless sleep.
F O U R
Nina—Present
Isla Culebrita, Puerto Rico
I WAKE UP to the sound of a boat motor. My eyes snap open, and I decide right away that the whirring sound is the best fucking sound I’ve ever heard. I shoot up and without thinking, I begin to scream at the top of my lungs.
“Help! He’s got me! Help! Help me!”
I continue screaming until I feel a warm hand on my mouth.
I bite it. He yelps in pain, staggering backwards. I continue to scream, but he dives forward and tackles me with his heavy weight. I muffle a cry, but he pins me down and holds my hands behind my back, all the while pressing my face into the dusty, stone ground. I try screaming, but it’s barely audible. Panic floods me—I can’t breathe.
Flailing, I make choking sounds. He releases me, but when I sit up, he slaps a hand across my mouth.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls quietly. Eyes wide, I stare up at the window and I pray whoever was out there heard me screaming.
Help me.
The whirring sound is gone. We both wait—both for different reasons. I listen for voices, the sound of a boat docking, anything… nothing.
Ten minutes pass. Twenty. I wish I could take a bite out of the hand holding my mouth—a full shark’s bite. The sweat from his palm is making my chapped lips sting, but I grit through the pain.
What now? Was that the only boat? Did they discredit it because ‘murder guy’ hid his boat? Is that what they’re looking for? Are they even looking for me?
He removes his hand. I fall back against the wall and wipe my lips, as if he has cooties. He probably does have some sort of venereal disease.
“If I ever get out of this alive, and by some miracle you’re still alive, I will make sure I spend my life hunting your sorry ass down,” I hiss, glaring at him.
And what does he do? The fucking bastard laughs. Not just laughs… he falls into a fit of hysterics.
I feel my cheeks burn with shame and anger. How dare he?
“You’re cute. Nice try.”
I’ve never had murderous thoughts before. Sometimes I wonder what the world would be like without certain people in it. However, I’ve never thought about murdering someone in gory detail, like I am right now. I watch as he recovers. His narrow, turquoise eyes are bright for once—the shadows and demons are gone, just for a second. The forehead creases have all but disappeared. He looks… normal.
It sends chills up my spine. He could be the guy working at Starbucks. A lawyer. A doctor. His beard is overgrown, but other than that… he looks like a regular guy.
“Fuck you,” I murmur. I wrap my mind trying to come up with something more insulting. I want him to feel the terror I feel. The pain. The unrest. I want him to hurt. I imagine gauging his eyes out with forks, watching as the blood spurts out. I imagine slowly slitting his throat and laughing as his life force is drained from him, slowly, painfully. I imagine taking a rock and bashing his head in, like a watermelon. “I hope you get the karma you deserve,” I spit, glaring at him in disgust.
I’m so angry at him for taking me away from my life.
“Karma isn’t real,” he repli
es incredulously, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes. “The universe isn’t kind to you just because you’re nice, and it’s not cruel to me just because I killed someone. It’s just there, waiting patiently and randomly fucking people over since the beginning of time.”
I snort. “I don’t believe that. I’m not an optimist, and I don’t believe in an afterlife, but people like you will rot in Hell.”
He laughs and then his eyes darken as he watches me. “Well, you know what they say. Go to Heaven for the climate and Hell for the company.”
His words send a cold tingle down my spine. “What did you just say?” I whisper, feeling my face pale.
He chuckles and walks away, ignoring my question. I watch as he goes down the staircase, whistling a tune I don’t recognize like a psycho. I sit down and curl up in the blanket. For the first time in almost seventeen years, I give myself permission to think of Benny.
“Last weekend, a man stopped me in the street. At first I was scared. My mom always told me not to talk to strangers. But then he gave me a lion’s tail. He said it will make me brave, and it might even turn me into a real lion. Anytime I need to be brave, all I have to do is touch the tail.” He gestures to the furry thing hanging from his belt. “It’s magic.”
“You’re lying,” Sera Andrews screeches as Benny finishes up his story. He has the entire third-grade class enraptured. “Prove it,” she adds, crossing her arms.
Benny laughs. “Fine.” He clears his throat and produces the tail. It looks like a brown, furry snake. Everyone else gasps and takes a step back, afraid he’s going to pounce and kill them. But I hold my place right in front of him. I’m fascinated. And I believe him. Something about him… he’s telling the truth.
He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, they’re small slits. It might be my imagination, but they suddenly have a yellow tinge to them. Benny looks at each and every one of us slowly. A low growl comes out of his lips, and I can’t look away. Some of the kids turn and run, but I stay planted. When his eyes get to mine, he gives me a small wink.
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