by Leylah Attar
I opened my eyes and took a deep breath. I was still engulfed in darkness, but I was aware of a constant rocking motion. Maybe my senses were starting to kick in. I tried to flex my fingers.
Please.
Be there.
Work.
Nothing.
My head was still pounding, from where he’d knocked me out, but beyond its boom-boom-boom there were voices, and they were getting closer.
“You pass through Ensenada often?” A woman’s voice.
I couldn’t make out the whole reply, but it was deeper, definitely male.
“ . . . I’ve never got the red light before,” he was saying.
My abductor’s voice, etched in my brain, along with his shoes.
“No big deal. Just a random check before . . . crossing the border.” The woman’s voice was fading in and out. “I need to make sure . . . vessel’s serial number matches the engine’s.”
The border.
Ensenada.
Shit.
The rocking motion suddenly made sense. I was on a boat, probably the same one he’d taken me out to. We were at Ensenada, the port of entry into Mexico, about 70 miles south of San Diego, and the lady was most likely a customs officer.
My heart picked up.
This is it. Your chance to escape, Skye.
Get her attention. You have to get her attention!
I screamed and screamed, but I couldn’t make a sound. Whatever he’d given me had paralyzed my vocal cords.
I heard footsteps above, which made me think I was probably in some kind of storage space below the deck.
“Just to verify, you’re Damian Caballero?” the woman asked.
“Damian,” he corrected. Dah-me-yahn. Not Day-me-yun.
“Well, everything looks like it’s in order. I’ll take a pic of your hull identification number and then you can be on your way.”
No! I was losing my window of opportunity.
I couldn’t kick or scream, but I found I could roll, so that’s what I did. Left to right, side to side. I rocked, harder, faster, not knowing if I was knocking up against anything, not knowing if it was making any difference. The sixth or seventh time I did it, I heard something grate above me, like wood scraping against wood.
Oh please.
Please, please, please, please.
I put everything into it, even though it was making me dizzy.
Something crashed. A loud thud. And suddenly it wasn’t so dark anymore.
“What was that?” the woman asked.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“It sounded like it came from below. Mind if I take a look?”
Yes!
“What do you have in here?” Her voice was clearer now.
She was close.
Really close.
“Ropes, chains, fishing equipment . . .”
I was starting to make out faint lines running vertically above me, inches from my face.
Yes. I can see! My eyes are okay!
I heard a lock turn and then the room flooded with glorious, blinding light that made me want to weep.
I tried to align my eyes with the gaps above me, the ones that allowed the light through. It looked like I was on the floor, trapped under planks of wood.
A man’s silhouette appeared on the stairs, with another figure behind him.
I’m here.
I started to rock furiously.
“Looks like one of your crates fell over,” said the customs officer.
I pushed it over. Find me. Please find me.
“Yep.” He walked towards me. “I just need to secure them.” He jammed his leg against my crate, preventing it from moving.
I could see the lady clearly now, through the slits of the lid—not all of her, but her hands and torso. She was holding some paperwork, and there was a walkie-talkie hanging from her belt.
I’m here.
Look up from your clipboard. You’ll see the light shining on my eye.
One step forward and you can’t miss me.
One. Lousy. Step.
“Need some help?” she asked, as the man picked up the crate that I’d managed to dislodge and put it back on top of me.
Yes! HELP. Help me, you dumb twat!
“I got it,” he replied. “A bit of rope, some hooks and . . . we’re good to go. There. All secured.”
“Those are some good-sized crates. Expecting a big catch?” I heard the thud of her steps on the stairs.
No! Come back.
I’m sorry I called you a dumb twat.
Don’t leave me.
PLEASE.
DON’T. LEAVE!
“Sometimes I manage to reel in a good one,” he replied.
The smugness in his voice sent a chill down my spine.
Then he shut the door, and I was plunged back into complete, utter darkness.
I WAS CRAWLING THROUGH A tunnel of sandpaper. Every time I moved forward, my skin caught on the rough, dry surface.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The sound of my cells sloughing off, layer by layer. My knees were raw, my back was raw, my shoulders were raw, but I could feel the warmth of the sun. I knew that if I just kept reaching for it, I’d make it out. I kept going and going, and soon I had room enough to stand. There was gravel all around me.
My heels sank into small stones and pebbles.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I kept walking. Everything hurt, but I trudged towards the light. And suddenly it was on me, all around me, making me squint from the sheer brilliance. I blinked and woke up, letting out a deep breath.
Whoa. Talk about a freakish nightmare. I was safely tucked away in bed, and the sun was streaming through the window. I sighed and snuggled back under the covers. A few more minutes and then I’d skip downstairs to collect my three kisses before my father left for work. I wasn’t going to take them for granted anymore.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I frowned.
It wasn’t supposed to follow me into reality.
I kept my eyes closed.
The covers felt funny, rough and coarse, not at all like my soft, silk duvet.
The window, the one I’d caught sight of momentarily, it was small and round. The kind that belonged on a boat.
And I hurt. I could feel it now. I hurt everywhere. My head was thick and heavy, and my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I knew it was bad, whatever that sound was. It was coming from behind me and I knew it was bad and evil, and it was going to pull me right back into hell.
“About time,” it said.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Dah-me-yahn.
Damian Hair-ripping, Skull-bashing, Coma-Inducing, Caballero.
He was here and he was real.
I squeezed my eyes tight. I’m pretty sure a wobbly tear would have escaped, but my eyes were so dry, my lids felt like sandpaper. All of me felt like that—raw and scraped, inside and out. No wonder I had been dreaming about tunnels of sandpaper. I was probably dehydrated. Who knew how long I’d been out or what the side effects were of whatever he’d used on me?
“Did you . . . what did you do to me?” My voice sounded weird, but I had never been more grateful for it. The same went for my arms and my legs and the rest of me. My head hurt, my bones ached, but I was still in one piece and I was never, ever going to hate my belly or my ass or the dimples on my thighs again.
Damian didn’t reply. He was still behind me, out of my line of sight, and he kept doing whatever the hell it was he was doing.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I started to tremble, but stifled the whimper that threatened to escape.
It was a slow, psychological game—him, being in total control, and me not knowing what was going to happen next, or when, or where, or why.
I startled when he slid a stool next to me. It had a bowl filled with some kind of stew, a hunk of bread that looked like it had been ripped off�
�no knife, no niceties—and a bottle of water. My stomach jumped at the sight of it. I felt like I hadn’t eaten in days, and although I wanted to throw it all back in his face, I was ravenously hungry. I lifted my head and sank back down—the motion, combined with the rocking of the boat, making me woozy and disoriented. I attempted it again, more slowly this time, coming up on my elbows before sitting up.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
What the hell was that?
“I wouldn’t turn around if I were you,” he said.
Interesting. He didn’t want me to see his face. If he planned to kill me, why would he care? It would only matter if he didn’t want me to be able to identify him.
I spun around. The world went all dizzy and blurry, but I spun around. Maybe I was a crazy-ass bitch, but I wanted to see his face. I wanted to memorize every last detail so I could nail the bastard if it ever came down to it. And if he killed me, so be it. At least we would be more even.
I saw your face: Bang Bang.
Rather than I-Have-No-Clue-What-I-Did-To-Deserve This: Bang Bang.
He didn’t react to my defiance, not the slightest hint of a response. He just sat there, dipped his fingers in the paper cone he was holding and tossed something in his mouth.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
His eyes were shielded by a baseball cap, but I knew he was watching me. I shuddered when I realized he was taking his time, weighing my punishment like he weighed whatever he was eating, before chomping it down with his teeth.
I didn’t know what I was expecting. I already knew I hated him, but now I hated him even more. In my mind, I had pictured someone completely different, someone as mean and ugly on the outside as he was on the inside. That made sense to me. Not this. Not someone so ordinary, you could walk right by him on the street and never realize you’d just brushed past pure evil.
Damian was younger than I’d anticipated—older than me, but not the grizzly, hardened thug I’d assumed he’d be. He might have had an average build and height, but he was strong as hell. I knew because I had kicked and punched and fought him like a wildcat in that parking lot. Every inch of him was cold, hard steel. I wondered if it was a requirement in his line of work: abduction, mock executions, smuggling girls across the border.
He hooked his foot around the stool and pulled it towards him. The glossy, custom shoes were gone. He was wearing ugly, generic boat shoes with ugly, generic sweat pants and an ugly, generic t-shirt. His lips curled mockingly, as if he was fully aware of my disdainful appraisal and was enjoying it. The asshole was enjoying it.
He tore the bread in half, dipped it in the stew, letting it soak up the thick, brown gravy, and bit into it. Then he sank back, chewing it slowly, while I watched. It was sourdough bread. I could smell it. I could almost taste the crispy crust, followed by the soft tang of the dough melting in my mouth. The steam rising from the stew filled my stomach with the promise of carrots and onions and pieces of soft, tender meat—a promise that Damian had no intention of keeping. I knew that now. I knew this was my punishment for turning around when he told me not to. I knew he was going to make me watch as he finished every last bit of the food that was meant for me.
The kicker was that he didn’t even want it. He looked like he was so full, he had to force every delicious fucking bite into his mouth while my stomach clamored, and I went dizzy with raw, gnawing hunger. My mouth puckered each time he swirled the bread in the stew, picking up chunks of slowly simmered vegetables and gravy. I watched him finish the bowl, unable to look away, like a starving dog ready to pounce on a stray morsel, but there was nothing left. Damian wiped every drool-inducing bit of it clean with the last piece of bread. Then he stood and uncapped the bottle of water, holding it over me.
Oh God. Yes. Yes.
I held out my hands as he started pouring, my dry, cracked lips anticipating that first thirst-quenching drop of water.
The water came. It did. But Damian held his dirty hand over me, the one he’d used to eat with, so that the water passed through his soiled fingers before it got to me. I had a choice. Accept his degradation or go thirsty.
I closed my eyes and drank. I drank because I couldn’t have stopped myself even if I wanted to. I drank because I was a ravenous, rattle-boned animal. But most of all I drank because some stupid, irrational part of me that sang stupid, irrational lullabies, still held hope. I drank till the water slowed down to a trickle. And when Damian flung the empty, plastic bottle across the room, I watched it roll around on the floor, hoping he would leave so I could stick my tongue inside and lick the last few drops out of it.
I thought back to the Swarovski studded bottle of Bling H20 that Nick and I had barely touched on our last date. He had just made assistant to the district attorney and his first official case was the next morning. It was a celebration that called for something harmless, but with the fizz and pop of a freshly opened bottle of champagne. I should have finished that beautiful, frosted bottle of sparkling water, and gone home with Nick. I should never have headed into the parking lot alone.
I looked up at my captor. He was wiping his hands on his sweatpants. I used the opportunity to take stock of my surroundings. It was a small stateroom with a queen-sized berth. The walls were dark wood cabinets. I guessed they doubled as storage space. There was one window (not big enough to crawl out of), an overhead latch that let through plenty of light (but was bolted down with a chain), and a door. Even if I got out, we were on a damn boat, in the middle of the ocean. There was no place to run and hide.
My eyes came back to Damian. He was watching me from under his baseball cap. It was navy blue with the initials ‘SD’ embroidered in white, the official insignia for the San Diego Padres. Apparently, he was into baseball. Or maybe he wore it because it summed him up perfectly:
Sadistic Douchebag
Also, if he really was a Padres fan, then Stupid Dreamer, because San Diego was the largest U.S. city to have never won a World Series, Super Bowl, Stanley Cup, NBA Finals or any other major league sports championship. It was a curse we suffered from, though my father remained hopeful at the start of every season:
Good luck, San Diego Padres. Break a leg!
“Try anything stupid and I’ll break your legs.” Damian picked up the empty bowl he’d just finished and headed for the door.
I should’ve bashed him over the head with the stool.
I should’ve tackled him so the bowl would slip and break, and then stabbed him with the broken glass.
“Please,” I said instead, “I need to use the bathroom.”
I couldn’t think beyond emptying my bladder. I was reduced to nothing but hunger and thirst and bodily functions. And I was totally dependent on him. ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ come automatically when you are at someone’s mercy. Even if you hate their guts.
He motioned for me to get up. My legs were wobbly and I had to hold on to him. I was wearing the same clothes—a cream, silk-georgette top and cropped cigarette pants, but they were barely recognizable. Isabel Marant’s Parisian chic looked like it had spent the night rolling around with Rob Zombie.
Damian led me through a narrow hallway. On the right was a small bathroom, with a compact shower stall, a vanity, and a toilet. I turned to shut the door, but Damian stuck his foot out.
“I can’t pee if you’re watching.”
“No?” He started pulling me back into the room.
“Wait.” God, I hated him. I hated him more than I thought I could ever hate another human being.
He waited by the door, not bothering to turn away. He wanted to make sure I understood the situation—that I didn’t count, that I didn’t have a say, that I wasn’t going to be afforded any privacy or mercy or grace or consideration. I was his prisoner, subject to his every whim.
I scooted over to the toilet seat, thankful that I was somewhat shielded from Damian’s view by the vanity. I unzipped my pants, noticing the scratches for the first time. My skin must have scraped against the sides of the cr
ate he’d locked me up in. I touched the back of my head and felt an egg-sized lump that hadn’t stopped throbbing since I’d come around. My legs protested as I sat down, and there were deep, purple bruises on my knees from rattling around in that wooden crate for who knows how long. Worse, my pee would not come, and when it did, it burned like hot acid. There wasn’t much, probably because I was so dehydrated, but I kept sitting, taking a few deep breaths before standing to wipe myself. I pulled my pants back on and was about to wash my hands when I caught my reflection.
“What the hell?” I turned to him. “What the hell did you do to me?”
He continued staring at me impassively, like he didn’t hear me, like I wasn’t worth answering.
My eyes swung back to the mirror. He’d hacked off my long blond hair and dyed it jet black: butchered it with a blunt pair of scissors and poured some caustic store-bought color over it. Bits of blond hair still stuck out under the dark pieces, making it look like I was wearing a cheap, goth wig. My gray eyes, that had always called attention to my face, faded against the harsh dye job. Combined with my pale eyelashes and brows, I looked like a living ghost.
My nose was scratched, my cheeks were scratched. Dried up rivulets of blood were caked over my ears from where he’d ripped my hair out. Deep, blue hollows ringed my eye sockets and my lips looked as painful and cracked as they felt.
My eyes stung with unshed tears. I couldn’t reconcile this person with the girl I was a few days ago, the girl who was going to turn heads on her twenty-fourth birthday. My father had to know by now that I was missing. I would never have skipped out on the birthday bash he was throwing me. He must have talked to Nick, the last person I’d been with. I didn’t know how many days had passed, but I knew my father had to be looking for me. He would hire the best and he wouldn’t stop until he found me. If he’d tracked my car down to the quay, he would already have considered the possibility that I was on a boat. The thought comforted me. Maybe he was close. Maybe all I needed to do was buy some time so he could catch up.
I felt under my blouse and sighed with relief. It was still there—the necklace my father had given my mother when I was born. It had been passed on to me after her death and I’d worn it ever since. It was a simple gold chain with a round locket. The locket had a transparent glass window that opened like a book. Inside were two rare gemstones—alexandrites—and a pink conch pearl.