Page 3 of Fire Island
So far, so good.
I attempt a bite of cold potato, my belly aching from emptiness from the days I’ve refused to eat. The mouthful is bland but not unwelcome. I swallow it down and pluck up the small enamel mug of water accompanying the food. Not trusting the contents of the stew, I push the tray away and lean against the wall.
Come on, Emmett. See the dark little island.
Please realize something is wrong.
Please.
“What did you do?” A voice hisses through the silent darkness. I jolt from a restless sleep to look up at a hunched grey figure looming over me.
T.
“What did you break? You think this is a game, Butterfly?” He leaves my space, checking the generator over.
No. No, the failed light was my only hope.
I sit up, holding my breath. Praying he doesn’t find the toggle. Doesn’t know how to restart it.
He squats, tapping his phone before light streams through the small room, illuminating the old generator. He runs a hand over its many parts before flicking the toggle up and cranking the old diesel over. It groans to life.
I huff out a sob.
The small, defeated noise is drowned out by the reverberating rumble of the machine. I slump back to the stone floor, curling in on myself.
That’s it.
My hope, snuffed out. Unlike the long, bright beam I’m sure is now swinging around the top of my entrapment. Something slides over the rough floor.
The tray of food. A fist grabs my hair, tugging me from my protective position.
“Ahhh. Stop!” I scramble to my knees as he hauls me up by my hair. “Ow, please, I’m sorry!”
“Get up! NOW!”
I wobble to my feet, trying to curl away from him, keeping my head against his fist. Gasping, I sway on my feet as I search his pale eyes in the dim light.
“Please.” I try for a thread of humanity. “Please, let me go home.”
He leans in closer, a rough hand sliding around my arm, too tight. His fist releases my hair, but he pulls me close. “Youarehome.”
My chin wobbles.
His breath hits my face. His nose almost touching my own.
Repelled, I cower with a whimper.
He shakes my arm, rattling me in the process. “There is nothing else left for you now, Eve.”
“I don’t believe you,” I whisper, sucking back the sob wanting out of my throat.
“Why would I lie to you, Butterfly? I love you.”
“You’re a psycho. Who does this? This is not love. Nothing like it.”
“My methods may not be conventional, but my motives are as pure as it gets.”
I—
