Page 11 of They Call Him Reaper

“Don’t be dramatic. Just sit up,” he grumbles.

His dismissive tone pisses me off.I’mnot the one tampering withhislife or taking him on an emotional rollercoaster. I’m the innocent one here. I sit up gingerly, but my head pounds more.

“I’mnot being dramatic! You keep knocking me out, dropping me on the ground, and dragging me around the world. I don’t have enough food in my system to handle the doses. That shit hurts! I haven’t said a word, and I do what I’m told, yet you still call me dramatic?” I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs. Dropping my head on my knees, I finish my thought. “Asshole.”

The boat slows, then stops, and the oars clank when he drops them in the boat. The noise of the oars falling isn’t what concerns me. It’s the silence after. It stretches uncomfortably—no, uncomfortable is a simple concept for normal people. His silence is louder than any threat he's ever spoken. The sick feeling in my stomach has nothing to do with the drugs. When I look up, I find him staring at me with stoney eyes. His jaw ticks and that's the last movement I detect before I'm slung to my left.

My yelp is muted by the water. As my buoyancy pushes me up, I cough and cough. Nose stinging, I'm able to take a small breath before going back under.

I try to control my panic as my limbs flail, attempting to do something they've never learned to do. My lungs burn due to the oxygen leaving my body, but I need to surface for air. I bounce back up, but not enough for a proper breath. I begin choking. This may be the way I die. The Reaper grabs my collar and stops me from going under once more. I'm coughing while gasping to catch my breath. My tears trail my cheeks and mix with the water.

“You need to remember that I allow you to live. Take the pain, love it, and embrace it like a fur coat that keeps you warm in deep winter. Even if each breath makes you feel like you’re about to die, it’s a reminder that you’re still living.” He pulls me back in the boat and drops me in the same spot where I’d awakened. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

Terror from my experience breaks the part inside that tried to be okay. The piece that wanted to appear calm and compliant. I didn’t want to be the crazy girl who freaks out and does reckless things. Curling into a fetal position, I openly sob without restraint. No need to pretend for him. I don’t have it all together, and I’m not an emotionless assassin who doesn’t give a damn. My life as I know it is over. The small piece of hope that I could have my normal life back one day is now lost at the bottom of the ocean.

The boat lurchesfrom hitting sand, but I remain in place. My will to continue is low and my entire being is exhausted.

“Get out,” he orders.

Pressing myself up, I do the bare minimum to meet his requirements. Throwing my leg over the side, I roll out and land in the sand on my back. It doesn’t matter that I’m looking at the bluest sky I’ve ever seen. I don’t care that the white sand beneath me feels like the best gentle exfoliator you’d want to put in expensive soap. And the amazing color of the ocean doesn’t mean shit, other than reminding me of its danger.

I hear the crunch of the sand as someone approaches from behind. A shadow moves over me, forcing me to focus on it. A man I’ve never seen before looks down at me with the same fascination Zagan had, yet I can’t muster the energy to care. There are worse things than a creep’s sexual attention. Sighing, I look off to the side while he addresses me. I don’t respond because I’m not listening. I’m over it. In my peripheral, I can see his weathered face scrunched in anger and spittle flying off his lips as he rages.Wow, he’s needy.

He grabs my face to force my eyes back on him.

“I know you heard me, bit-”

His insult literally dies on his lips as his eyes roll and his head jerks back from the impact of a bullet piercing his forehead. He falls in a heavy thud in the sand, not far from where I lie. I exhale slowly and wipe his blood from my cheek with a shaky hand. The bright red liquid glistens in the sun, more alive than its host.

“Now, we have the island to ourselves,” The Reaper informs me like it’s my new home.

Maybe it is. I see a nice spot to be buried. Dead weight slushes through the sand, leaving a red trail behind. The Reaper leaves him next to two bodies I didn’t notice before. There appears to be a wooden table or a block of wood for chopping. He removes his shirt and grabs the nearby ax; one swift chop severs the first corpse’s arm from its body.

I close my eyes. There's no point in watching, it’ll only pull me further into his madness. Each chop becomes fainter as my body shuts down naturally. A slight shift tells me I’m being carried. Air replaces the water that was tickling my toes as I’m being taken somewhere, but I’m too tired to care. Refusing to fight sleep, I doze off again.

It’sdark when I open my eyes. I’m on the floor and the coolness of it makes me shiver. My mouth is dry. I need water. Reaching out, my hand hits something, and it falls over. An unopened bottle of water now lies next to a wrapped sandwich and a bowl of fruit. Even breathing pulls my attention to the bed where my captor sleeps peacefully.

The low light from a nearby candle highlights every exposed muscle he has. I’ve noticed his lack of tattoos in the woods. All the “bad guys” I’ve seen on television have them. My dad evenhas at least one. No, he’s a blank canvas with a few healed scars. My eyes follow a vein that starts at his hip and disappears below the sheet. It’s possible he may be naked, but that information doesn’t do me any good. He’s not suddenly less dangerous.

I reach for the fruit, but his voice stops me. “You still have blood on your hands. Shower first.”

Without comment, I amble toward the bathroom. Knowing him, he already has my stuff waiting for me. The warm water heats me, but it doesn’t fix the chill that runs bone deep. My purpose is still unknown, but now that we’re completely alone, I may find out my fate soon. My life expectancy doesn’t appear to be great. He’s a ghost for a reason.

Chamomile soap doesn’t soothe me like it used to and the desire to do anything beyond washing the blood out of my hair is low. I’m clean when I’m done but I don’t feel any better. I dry my body with a towel, then wrap my hair. The shirt he provided has a soft yet woodsy scent, just like him. It may be just cotton and manufactured in a factory with a million others just like it, but it feels weird donning the shirt of a crazy man. Taking a deep breath, I study myself in the mirror. The same face that has greeted me a little over twenty-seven years stares back, but it’s all different. Like someone at work has disturbed my desk, yet I can’t quite tell what’s changed. Tilting my head from one side to the other, I begin to wonder if it’s contagious. Can I catch crazy?

It doesn’t matter, it wouldn’t do me any good. Crazy without skill or knowledge just makes me plain crazy. He’s on the other side of the door. I can feel it. It’s confirmed when I open it to find him standing there with his hair slicked back, chest bare, and wearing nothing but briefs. A slight arch of his eyebrow tells me he noticed my lack of surprise, but he’s not here for me. His motivations are never ruled by a desire to be near me, so I sidestep him before he pushes me out of the way.

I’m not surprised when he disappears into the bathroom and closes the door. He’s back and wearing pants by the time I’m done inspecting my food and watches me for a beat as I chew.

I may not know the plan, but I know it’s not over.

EIGHT

Dante

Everyone has their breaking point.Some break earlier than others, but it’s all the same. Part of them becomes irreparable. How the person moves from that can be beautiful or a disaster. I saw the moment she broke. When I pulled her out of the water, the person she was when we’d first met disappeared. The way she curled up in the boat was familiar. I’ve been there before. This is the stuff that gets true serial killers off. Some of them love to snuff the light out of someone's eyes long before they kill them.

Doing so doesn’t get me off, but it was necessary for her. She needed to be deeply rooted in reality. This is the hard part. We’re staying off grid for at least a month. Father needs to sweat. I need him to feel the terror parents feel when their children disappear into thin air. Yes, he’s done that to many parents with sex trafficking, but that’s not why I’m doing this. That’s just a bonus. If he were here right now, I’d cut his precious child into pieces and hand them to him one by one, then slit his throat while he cries.

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