Page 460 of Rage

Taste of Vengeance

By: Maree Rose

Chapter One

Consciousness claws its way back into my grasp, a spiteful cat leaving claw marks of pain across the landscape of my mind. My head throbs in a persistent cruel rhythm, each pulse a hammer blow against the fragile shell of my skull. My body echoes the torment with sharp aches that carve their presence into every limb, branding themselves deep within my flesh.

I muster the strength to pry my eyes open, but they betray me, rebelling with nothing more than slits against the harsh light. I try again, desperation clawing at the edges of my newly awakened, terror filled consciousness. The world around me swims in a blurry haze, shapes and shadows melding into a canvas of confusion. I'm adrift in a sea of disorientation, my senses mutinous, refusing to report anything but fragments of reality.

With each laborious attempt to focus, my frustration mounts—a silent scream in a void where no one can hear. Vulnerability wraps around me like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. I want to shout, to demand clarity from the murky haze that holds me captive, but my voice is a prisoner too, locked somewhere deep inside.

A shard of memory pierces the fog in my mind, cruel and uninvited. It's a hand—no, hands—everywhere, grasping, taking, stealing what isn't theirs to claim. My breath hitches in my throat as the images cascade over me: the trees, the scent of the ocean nearby, the weight of a body pressing down on mine. The sounds of my own screams drowned out by the music and crash of the waves.

"Please, no," the desperate cry escapes from my lips, barely more than a whisper as I try to shake away the flashes that fracture my sanity. I feel the ghost of their touch, rough against my skin, igniting a raw panic that coils around my spine like barbed wire. The terror is a live thing inside me, squirming and clawing its way up my throat.

"Shhh... You're safe now." A deep, gentle voice slices through the chaos of my mind, the tone rich and unexpectedly comforting.

I flinch at the sound, instinctively recoiling from the masculine timbre. But there's something inexplicably soothing about it, like a balm applied to a burn. The voice is a stark contrast to the shrieking of my memories. It resonates within the hollows of my despair, stirring an odd sense of security amidst the storm.

"Try to breathe with me. In... and out." The voice instructs, rhythmically, insistently.

I cling to the cadence of those words, letting them become the heartbeat I synchronize with. The presence is a warmth in the cold dread that has settled in my bones. I don't know this man, I don’t recognize this voice in the dark, but for reasons I can't begin to fathom, I find myself wanting to believe him, to trust in the protection his tone promises.

"Good, you're doing great," the voice encourages, a thread of something like pride weaving through each word.

The sound envelops me, wraps me in a cocoon, shielding me from the jagged edges of my own fractured thoughts. With each spoken word, the tide of fear recedes a fraction more, leaving me adrift in a strange calm that I hadn't dared hope to find again.

The timbre of his voice, deep and reassuring, is a strange lullaby that stills the tempest in my mind. The man's voice should be a threat, yet it isn't. Instead, it's a paradoxical caress against the jagged edges of my psyche, and it both terrifies and comforts me.

"Who are you?" I want to scream, but the words knot up in my throat, unvoiced whispers of distrust wrestling with the unexpected solace that blankets me.

My body, a sea of agony, betrays me at the first attempt to move. Pain arcs down my spine; sharp, searing pain that splinters through me, anchoring me back into the unforgiving present. I gasp out a strangled sound. My limbs are leaden, uncooperative, and the effort to command them is like shouting into a void. Helplessness swamps me, a tide of despair threatening to drag me under again.

"Shh, easy," the voice murmurs, closer now, a lifeline amid the throbbing hurt that holds me captive. There's a gentle touch against my arm, featherlight, a contrast to the invisible weights pinning me down. The tender care from hands that belong to someone unknown slices through the fog of my confusion, sharpening my focus.

"Let me die," I whimper, tasting the metallic tang on my tongue. The plea is a blade, cutting through the remnants of my former self-assuredness, laying bare the raw, bleeding need for salvation. Each syllable is an admission of defeat and a cry for rescue all at once.

"Let you die?" There's a pause. "How will you take your revenge if you're six feet under?"

The word 'revenge' ignites something within me, a spark in the darkness that threatens to consume everything. It's a match struck in a room full of gasoline, dangerous and intoxicating all at once.

Move, I command myself, channeling what remains of my willpower into the simple act of lifting an arm. Agony laughs at the effort, a cruel reminder of my plight. But beneath the physical torment, there's an ember of resolve that refuses to be extinguished. This pain will not define me. I will not allow it.

"Stay still, you're safe," he says, the undertone of authority mingling with concern threading through the darkness. A peculiar curiosity flickers to life, a beacon amidst the desolation. I want to know this stranger whose voice seems to hold the power to soothe and disarm the demons that have taken root in my soul.

The voice drifts back to me, a lifeline thrown into the churning sea of my consciousness. "I won’t hurt you. No one will hurt you ever again." Each word is a balm, seeping into the cracks of my fractured spirit. They are soft and strong at once, like sturdy vines that I instinctively grasp, allowing them to anchor me to the present, away from the abyss that threatens to swallow me whole.

"Who—" My attempt at speech is a rasp, a harsh sound scraped from the depths of my throat. The effort sends a fresh wave of pain through me, but I'm determined to break through the silence that cocoons me. I need to hear my own voice, however broken, asserting its right to be heard.

"Shh... don't talk. Save your strength," he urges gently.

"Name..." I manage to croak out, demanding, needing the power that comes with knowing. Names hold sway, a modicum of control, and if I am to navigate this shadowy limbo between victim and avenger, I must arm myself with knowledge.

"My name’s Jasper Baker, but you can call me Jaz," comes the reply, simple and unadorned. Jaz. The name is a new beginning, a chapter yet unwritten, and it fortifies me with a sliver of strength I didn't know I had left.

The coolness of a damp cloth ghosts across my forehead. I flinch, an instinctive recoil, but the touch is persistent—gentle, almost reverent.

"Easy," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. His fingers brush against my arm, light as moth wings. His hands are deft as they tend to me, movements practiced and precise. Why does he care? Why is this man trying to heal my battered form?

---