The Paper Swan

by Leylah Attar

  “Here,” I unclasped it and dangled it before Damian.

  It wasn’t like I could trade it in for my freedom, since he could easily just take it from me, but if I could lure him with the promise of more, if I could whet his appetite with monetary compensation, maybe I could buy some time and stall whatever he had planned for me.

  “This is worth a lot of money,” I said.

  He didn’t seem to care. Then the indifference left him. His whole body stiffened and he took his cap off. It was an odd gesture, the kind of thing a man does when he’s informed of someone’s death. Or maybe he did it out of reverence, like when you’re standing in front of something big and beautiful and holy. Either way, he reached for it, very slowly, until it was swinging from his hand.

  He held it up to the light and for the first time, I saw his eyes. They were dark. Black. But the kind of black that I’d never seen before. Black was One. There were no shades to black. Black was absolute, impenetrable. Black absorbed all the colors. If you fell into black, it swallowed you whole. Yet here was a different kind of black. It was black ice and burning coal. It was well-water and desert night. It was dark tempest and glassy calm. It was Black battling Black, opposite and polar, and yet still . . . all black.

  I could see my mother’s necklace suspended in Damian’s eyes. It reminded me of what it’s like to stand between two mirrors, staring at the seemingly endless line of images fading into the distance. There was something in his eyes, in his face that I couldn’t place. He seemed mesmerized by the locket, like he’d fallen into some kind of a daze.

  He had a chink in his armor after all.

  “There’s more where that came from,” I said.

  He tore his eyes away from the necklace and looked at me. Then he grabbed me by the arm, dragged me through the galley, up a short set of stairs, and onto the deck. I stumbled after him, my legs still wobbly and weak.

  “You see this?” He gestured around us.

  We were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by miles and miles of dark, rolling water.

  “This,” he continued, pointing at the ocean, “doesn’t give a fuck about this.” He shook the necklace in front of my face. Your gems are nothing but washed up grit to me. “Pity,” he said more softly, holding the locket up to the sun. “Such a pretty little thing.”

  My father couldn’t decide what color of stone to get my mother. He told me he had chosen alexandrites because they were like the rainbow. They went through dramatic shifts in color depending on the light. Indoors, they looked reddish purple, but here in the sun, they sparkled with a bright, greenish hue. Their light glinted off Damian’s face.

  “Such a pretty little thing,” he repeated quietly, almost sadly.

  “The stones are very rare. The pearl too. You’d never want for anything. You could go anywhere. Disappear. Do whatever you like. And if you want more—”

  “How much do you think your life is worth, Skye Sedgewick?”

  He knew my name. Of course he knew my name. He’d probably ransacked my handbag. That, or he’d been stalking me, in which case this was a deliberate act, not some random abduction.

  “How much do think my life is worth,” he asked, holding up the locket again. “The length of this chain? The pearl? These two rare stones?” He looked at me, but I had no answer.

  “Have you ever held a life in your hands?” He dropped the locket in my hand and closed my fingers around it. “Here, feel it.”

  He was nuts. Stark-raving nuts.

  “Do you know how easy it is to destroy a life?” He took the necklace from me and slowly, deliberately, dropped it.

  It fell by his feet. He played with it for a while, sliding it back and forth over the smooth deck, with the toe of his shoe.

  “It’s really, ridiculously easy.” He stepped on the necklace and ground down with his heel, all the while looking at me.

  The glass started cracking under his weight.

  “Don’t,” I said. “It’s the only thing that’s left of my mother.”

  “It was,” he replied, not letting up until the locket shattered.

  The way he said ‘was’ creeped me out.

  It was.

  I was.

  Things that came on board.

  Things that never left intact.

  He picked up the broken keepsake and examined it.

  I felt a rush of triumph because the stones and pearl remained unscathed. Of course they did. It must have shown on my face because he grabbed my neck and squeezed so hard, I was gasping for air.

  “Did you love your mother?” he asked, finally letting go.

  I bent over, trying to catch my breath. “I never got to know her.”

  Damian walked to the railing and held the necklace over the water. I watched, still on my knees, as it floated in the wind. I knew what he was going to do, but I couldn’t look away.

  “Ashes to ashes . . . ,” he said, as he dropped it into the ocean.

  I felt like he’d thrown a piece of me overboard, like he’d dishonored the love my parents had shared, the memories they’d made—the two rainbow alexandrites, and me, their pink pearl. Damian Caballero had destroyed what was left of our pretty, glass world.

  I couldn’t cry. I was too exhausted. My spirit was crawling through tunnels of sandpaper, being skinned alive. Scrape off my freedom. Scrape off my hair. Scrape off my dignity and my self-worth and everything I possess, and cherish, and hold dear. I lay there looking up at the sky, looking up at the sun that I’d been yearning for, and I didn’t care.

  I didn’t care when Damian forced me to get up and shoved me back downstairs. I didn’t care about counting windows or marking the exits. I didn’t care when he locked me up or when the engine picked up, taking us farther away from my home, my father, my life.

  All I knew as I lay in bed, watching fluffy white clouds morph into strange, hideous forms through the overhead latch, was that if I ever got the chance, I wouldn’t hesitate a single second before killing Damian Caballero.

  IT WAS DARK WHEN DAMIAN came in again.

  I was dreaming of pink-frosted cake and piñatas and Esteban.

  Touch her again and I’ll see you in hell, he said, as they dragged him away.

  He’d been my self-appointed protector, but there was no protecting me from the man who stood in the doorway now.

  The light from the hallway outlined his form, casting a sinister shadow over my bed. I wanted to hide somewhere it couldn’t reach me.

  Damian placed a tray on the bed and pulled up a chair. He left the lights off, but I smelled food. He’d brought me food.

  I approached the tray cautiously, keeping my eyes averted. I remembered what had happened the last time I’d defied him, and I was going to be a good girl. I was going to be a good, conditioned girl. I could barely contain the hunger pangs that were rolling through my stomach in short, tight contractions, but I forced myself to slow down, to behave, to be civil and not bury my face in the plate like I wanted to.

  It was some kind of fish, simply grilled, with rice on the side. God, it smelled good. There was no cutlery, which was fine, because all I wanted to do was rip into it, but I knew he was watching, so I pinched off a piece with my fingers, and the oil and cooking juices mingled with the rice.

  “Not so fast¸” he said.

  Oh God, not again. Please just let me eat.

  I wondered what he’d do if I licked my fingers.

  I could taste the fish so bad.

  “Stand up,” he instructed.

  I swallowed the dry lump in my throat, the one that wanted to scream and cry and whimper and beg. I swallowed the tasteless, fishless lump and stood.

  “Take your clothes off,” he said from the shadows.

  I had been expecting it. Sooner or later, one way or another, it always came down to their dick. Suck it, lick it, stroke it, fuck it.

  Because my mother didn’t love me.

  Because my father hit me.

  Because my teacher fondled me
.

  Because I was bullied.

  Because my wife left me.

  Because my kids don’t talk to me.

  That’s why I drink.

  I gamble.

  I can’t stop eating.

  I’m addicted to sex.

  I cut myself.

  I pull out my eyelashes.

  I do drugs.

  But it’s not always enough, you know? And sometimes, it spills over because you can’t control it, because you need to make others feel your pain, your hurt, your rage, because it’s tough to walk around all scarred up, in a world full of slick billboards and bright, smiley toothpaste ads and shiny, happy people. Life’s not always fair. So suck it, lick it, stroke it, fuck it.

  I didn’t care what category of dysfunction Damian fell in to. Sometimes it’s because I’m just pure evil, you know? I kept my mind on the prize as I unbuttoned my top. It might have looked like I was staring at the floor, but I was eating rice and fish with my eyes. It’s amazing—the things you can do in survival mode. I stepped out of my pants and stood before him in my bra and panties. Agent Provocateur. Midnight Captive Collection.

  “Take them all off,” he said, emphasizing the word as if I was incapable of comprehending a simple command.

  I unclasped my 34C black fishnet lace bra, shimmied out of the matching panties and stood before Damian. Naked.

  He shifted in his chair. “Turn on the light.”

  Fish. Think fish, I told myself as I felt around for the switch.

  “Higher, to the right,” he said.

  My fingers shook as I flipped it on.

  “Good girl. Now walk towards me.”

  Like he was directing a fucking porn movie.

  I kept my eyes down until I got to his chair, until I was looking at his ugly boat shoes. God, I hated those shoes. I hated the laces and the leather and the sole and every single stitch that held them together. I hated them because he had taken away my beautiful golden pumps and now I was barefoot and weak and naked and hungry and hurting and it was fish vs fuck. So fuck him and his shoes and his dirty, psycho games and—

  “Turn around,” he said.

  I looked at him then, expecting lechery and lust, but he was inspecting my body with a detachment that infuriated me. I was used to men staring at me, wanting me. My body wasn’t runway perfect, but I owned every inch of it. It was my power, my weapon, my ticket to exclusive clubs, front lines at fashion shows, red carpet treatment. Guys did things for me, girls did things for me, and it mattered because it was for me, not my name, or fame or fortune, or the string of hotels that my father owned. I had a good body and I wasn’t ashamed to flaunt it. I didn’t sleep around, but I wasn’t averse to using it.

  And now Damian was taking that away from me too. He was stripping me down to body parts. Inspecting me—my arms, my legs, my back, my feet—not me the woman, but me his prisoner, a collection of separate, movable parts. There was nothing sexual about Damian’s perusal and I hated that because it left me even more powerless. I stood with my back turned to him, feeling his eyes on my skin, wondering if any trace of food remained if I were to lick my fingers now.

  I felt the air shift around me. He was standing behind me now, his breath fanning against my shoulder.

  “You stink,” he said. “Get in the shower.”

  A shower. Soap and water. And a reprieve from Damian.

  I’d done well.

  Wait for me, Fish. I looked longingly at the plate before heading for the bathroom.

  The stall was tiny, with barely enough room to move, but the warm water felt like heaven, even though it stung where my skin was raw and bruised. I started to wash my hair and held back a sob because for a while, I’d forgotten that my long, luxurious locks were gone. I had barely finished rinsing it when the door swung open and Damian turned the faucet off.

  “This isn’t a fucking spa. It’s a boat with a water tank. You’ll do well to remember that.”

  He held out a towel. It was threadbare, but clean. I caught sight of my reflection as he escorted me back to the room. The girl with the weird hair startled me yet again.

  Modesty had fled out the window. I dried myself in front of Damian and looked around for my clothes. He opened one of the cabinets and started throwing shopping bags on the bed. They were all mine. Kate Spade. Macy’s. All Saints. Sephora. Zara. It wasn’t as if I had to work for a living, but I’d graduated with a degree in fine arts and was embarking on a career as a fashion consultant. I told myself it was research. I went on shopping sprees and left everything lying around in my car for days, sometimes weeks.

  Shit.

  He could only have gotten these if he’d gone back to the car. And if he’d gone back, there was a good possibility he’d either disposed of it, or moved it. Either way I was screwed. The trail of breadcrumbs I was hoping my father would follow was starting to disappear. My only hope now was that the parking lot I’d been abducted from had caught something on the surveillance camera. His height, his weight, his face—anything that would help with the investigation. No matter what, I knew my father would not give up. And right now, that’s exactly what I needed to do.

  Not. Give. Up.

  I started emptying the bags. Stupid sequin mini skirt. Stupid gauzy, halter dress. Stupid giant bling ring. God. How could I fill so many bags with so much crap? I would have to wash and wear the same underwear. Agent Rinse and ReProvocateur.

  I was still sorting through the bags when Damian started stuffing everything back into the cabinet. There was a pair of black yoga pants (yes!) and a flimsy white thong (no!) on the bed. He pulled out an ugly, generic t-shirt and threw it at me. Judging by the size, it was his.

  “Drop the towel,” Damian instructed.

  Like I said, it always came back to the dick. Now that I didn’t stink.

  I closed my eyes, expecting the rustle of his pants as they hit the floor.

  It never came. Instead, I felt him rub something into my hairline. It smelled medicinal and stung like hell, especially where the follicles had been ripped off. He did the same around my ears. Then he applied salve on my back, on all the nicks and cuts and bruises he’d noted when he’d inspected me.

  I got what he was doing—rewarding my good behavior with kindness, soothing the wounds he’d inflicted upon me. I was supposed to feel grateful, dependent, to bond with him over small mercies, but that whole Stockholm syndrome thing? Yeah, I really wasn’t feeling it. If I ever found where he’d stashed my spiked heels, I was going to nail his black heart to the mast of his fucking boat.

  Die, Dah-me-yahn. DIE.

  “You can manage the rest yourself,” he said, flinging the tube onto the bed.

  He left, leaving the door open, and I could hear him brushing his teeth.

  Screw the salve. I jumped on the now-cold plate of fish and rice.

  Fish did not let me down. Fish was the juiciest, most delicious thing I had ever tasted. I wept as I ate Fish.

  I picked up the rice with my fingers and closed my eyes, savoring its thick, starchy goodness. My taste buds were exploding over white fucking rice.

  Yes. Yes. Yes. More!

  I licked the plate clean. No, really. I licked the plate clean and then went over it once more, for good measure. I had no idea when my next meal would be, or what I would have to do for it. I changed into the clothes Damian had left for me, smelling him on the t-shirt. I nearly brought Fish back up. Not that it smelled bad. It was just downright animalistic—sun and sea and sweat—the kind of odor no amount of detergent could erase.

  I peeked through the doorway. Damian was still in the bathroom. I started rifling through the cabinets: linens, towels, rain gear, scuba stuff. I was almost through when I stepped on something round and hard. Lifting my foot, I found a roasted peanut stuck to my sole. There were more peanuts on the floor, and it looked like they had rolled out of a discarded paper cone, the one Damian had been munching out of.

  I sat on the chair he’d been sitting on and popped
one in my mouth.

  Crunch, crunch, cru—I stopped as he walked through the door.

  He looked like he had just showered. His hair was slicked back and he’d changed into gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. His eyes narrowed when he saw me.

  “I have a life-threatening allergy to peanuts and I just ate a whole bunch,” I said. “If I don’t get immediate medical attention, I’ll die.”

  He looked at me for a beat, before opening one of the cabinets I hadn’t gotten around to.

  Yes! Maybe he had a satellite phone or a walkietalkie or whatever boats used to communicate.

  He pulled out a jar and sat on the bed. He uncapped it and proceeded to moisturize his feet.

  He fucking moisturized his feet.

  “Did you hear me?” I squealed. “I’m going to die.” I started taking deep breaths.

  He took his time, first one foot, then the other, like it was the single most important task in the world. Then he pulled on his socks and closed the jar. “So die.”

  I fucking hated him. He didn’t want money. He didn’t want sex. He didn’t care if I lived or died. He wouldn’t tell me where we were going. He wouldn’t tell me why. And now he was calling my bluff.

  “What do you want?” I screamed.

  I was sorry the minute I said it. He moved fast. Lightning fast. Before I could apologize, he had me gagged, bound, and secured to the bedpost.

  Then he turned off the light and got into bed.

  The bastard wasn’t even out of breath.

  I didn’t know which was worse—my arms stretched painfully over my head, the sides of my cracked lips bleeding on the gag, or knowing that this was how it was going to be. One room, one bed, my captor sleeping next to me, night after night.

  I WOKE UP STIFF AND sore. Damian was gone, and I was still tied to the bed. He took his time getting back to me. I felt a surge of relief when I saw him standing there with the now familiar tray.