Page 2 of Taunting Tarran
My screams have long since died down, my throat aching so much I can’t make another sound. Instead, it is replaced by a guttural rasp that tastes of iron and salt as I struggle to draw breath from the searing pain. The metallic taste of blood lingers on my tongue as blood drips to my lips mixed with the dirt from the ground. My screams for help would be lost in a sea of deafening noises anyway. I reach up into my hair, my locks a thick, matted mess, dark strands glued together by congealed blood sticking to my face. I can feel my right eye is swollen shut, bruised and discoloured, and as I suck in a sharp breath, panic takes over. I force my eyes open, looking through the prison-like metal bars unable to think about anything else other than my broken body. My body is covered in a patchwork of blue and purple blooming bruises, a visual reminder of the violence that had recently occurred.
Muffled shouting and screaming surrounds me, and a pair of hands is grabbing at me, hauling me to my feet. I’m outside, that much I can tell, but I’m trapped in a cage.
‘Get up,’ he mutters. My chest heaves as I take in my blurred surroundings, my eyes wide and pale as I slowly stand up to meet the gaze of a man on the other side pissing in my face.
‘Eso es cariño, abre la boca,’he drawls.
My eyebrows scrunch as my body aches. I can barely stand, and I have no idea where I am. I step forward as the man flicks the last dribble from the end of his cock, then he hunches forward popping his member back in through his zipper.
As he walks away I take in my surroundings, clinging onto the metal bars that contain me. I register any significant details; the type of trees, mountains, any flat, open areas, and most importantly what this fucker looks like.
‘Where am I?’ I ask through dry, chapped lips.
‘It doesn’t matter where, it only matters why,’ a voice nearby answers.
The urge to cry from the pain deepens as I look around at other captives. It feels as if a boa constrictor is tightening around my throat as I force out a question.
‘Thenwhyam I here?’
A boy’s smile curls at one side. ‘You look a little older than the others, but someone must have wanted you real bad.’
‘Older? You’re older than me. How old are you? Eighteen? Twenty? Not that that matters! We have to get out of here,’ I state.
‘Keep your voice down,’ he scolds as he walks closer towards me, his towering physique standing in front of me. I gasp as I feel his hot breath on my face.
‘Do I scare you?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I answer blandly.
‘Good,’ he hisses. ‘Now, look at me.’ His hand reaches for me. His deep, black eyes are wide as they watch his fingers tucka stray hair behind my ear. I wince as the cold touch of his skin brushes past my cheek.
‘My mum had hair just like yours, like the colour of cinnamon. When I was a young boy, I would twirl it between my fingers, and she would say her hair wrapped me in warmth,’ he sighs. ‘I miss her.’
His eyes flicker to mine, then to the bridge of my nose, and I note how dark his hands are - so ingrained with dirt.
Anxiety holds me in a chokehold as his index finger traces the line of my nose then drops onto my lower lip. He shakes his head, his touch becoming firmer.
‘I’ve never seen something so fucking beautiful in all my life.’ His finger pushes inside my mouth. ‘There’s so much blood on your face, yet I see no wounds, apart from this one on your leg,’ he murmurs as his finger withdraws, and his hand twists my jaw side-to-side with his thumb smearing the encrusted blood away from my mouth.
‘The blood on my face… it’s not mine.’ I grimace as a sharp pain pulses through the top of my thigh, rivulets of crimson streaming through a gash.
‘That’ll leave a scar,’ he murmurs, tracing his fingers over the lightning bolt-shaped wound.
‘I must have snagged it on a rock when…’ I pause.
He looks at me, silently urging me to continue.
‘When they took me,’ I sigh.
‘Callate!’ a cold, gravelly voiceshouts. The boy’s eyes clash with mine. I bring my finger to my lips. ‘Shush.’
His coarse fingers clutch online mine pulling them away from my lips.
Where the Hell am I?
I hazard a guess I’m still in Spain. I recognise the rugged and jagged mountain tops of Spain’s untamed wilderness.
It’s not unlike my grandfather’s estate where majestic deer would stalk the woods like phantoms in the mist. I look around, the familiar ground strewn with sharp stones, gnarled tree roots snaking across the ground. In the distance, I see an old ruin, its stone structure crumbling under the dense canopy of nature.
