Page 52 of Arrogant and Merciless

“I want to be perfect for you.”

Five minutes later, he says, “I should clean up the kitchen first, but I’m feeling generous. I want to make you happy. Let’s go.”

“Thank you so much, sir.”

“You’re very different from . . .”

“Different from what?” I ask.

“From what I imagined,” he answers, though I’m sure that’s not what he was going to say. “That’s probably why he wanted you.”

“Don’t think about him anymore. It’s just us now.”

Taylor

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

They saythat when you’re close to death, your life flashes before your eyes like a movie. You mostly remember the past.

My past was marked by pain: a mother who, contrary to what I told that wretch, didn’t die of thrombosis but rather was killed in a robbery; a wonderful father, but one who became an alcoholic because he never got over losing the woman he loved.

There’s a saying among cops: “one bullet, two dead.” That’s what happened to my family. The man who killed my mother also took my father with him. The only difference is that Dad left this world bit by bit, through drinking.

I don’t have the same kind of childhood memories most kids do. The first thing I remember is how, at Christmastime, my father would lose himself in alcohol. Dinners and festivities came second to his grief. Then this “inverted celebration,” his grieving ritual, started extending to every special occasion, leaving me with only one date I wasn’t afraid to face: my birthday.

On that day, Dad would shave, cut his hair, and go back to being, for those twenty-four hours, the perfect man he used to be.

I don’t blame him for turning to alcohol. But I can’t pretend I had more happy days than sad ones in my past. So now, as I take a step toward what could mean the difference between my life or my death, I focus not on what’s behind me, but on all that’s still to come.

I want a future.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

“I’m hungry now. Guess I’ve gotten out of the habit of walking.”

He touches my face, and I suppress a wave of revulsion.

We’re standing at the entrance to the kitchen, and I can already smell the gas. I know I don’t have much time. He’ll notice soon enough.

I grab the lighter I hid in my pocket before we left and wait just long enough for both of us to be inside the room. It’s my good fortune this bastard is a smoker. And not just any smoker—he’s addicted. He can’t go long without a cigarette. On countless occasions, back when I was still blindfolded, I smelled the smoke and even inhaled that disgusting smell.

Today, when I saw the lighter, I realized it was my only chance. In the case of my captor, his addiction to cigarettes will literally cut his life short.

We’re in the kitchen now, and from his stiff posture, I can tell he’s quickly realizing what happened. Without a word, he walks toward the stove. I make no sound, scarcely breathing. I inch toward the door, and as I pull it open, right when he turns around, I flick the lighter and run.

When I hear the first explosion, I’m already about thirty meters away.

Earlier, we walked for nearly twenty minutes, so I know which way the river lies.

I don’t look back.

I force myself to go faster and faster, though I’m terrified of what will happen once I get there.

And finally, I can’t go any farther.

My entire body is trembling. When I glance downward, I see water and rocks, and I pray I can make it out alive.

I reach the cliff’s edge and think of a conversation I once had with my dad.

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