Page 24 of Jagged Line Paradise

If I look closely at the lines he spent such careful time on, I could almost fool myself into thinking that they look like the jagged lines of the mountains. Except, the shade of red from my blood is wrong—it’s the wrong shade for the sunset. I imagine a paint brush in my hand, one made of magic, a brush that swoops across the vibrant red, changes it to that beautiful deep pink, heals my wounds, and sets me free.

That pink is the color of my soul.

I can see it now flowing from my body.

Pink, not red.

Paint, notblood.

Paradise, not hell.

I close my eyes and all I see is the sunset and Andrés and paradise.

The metal sliding door to this death box clangs against the sound of chains, which I assume are being removed from the outside handle and must attach it to something.

My heart pounds as light bursts into the death box as the door slides open, then disappears again almost as quickly as the door slides shut again. I instantly feel like I’ve gone back in time. Like it’s yesterday and I’ve only just realized his intentions with me.

I immediately resort to begging.

“P-please...” I say weakly, my throat raw and dry.

“P-please,” he mimics, laughing, and the sound approaches my side.

I turn my head to the left to see him circle around my side. My muscles are stiff and sore. I’ve been strapped to the table, my legs up and spread in the stirrups all night and all day yesterday. I’m successfully incapacitated. I don’t even know if I could run if I somehow managed to get out of these binds.

Is this it?

Is this the end for me?

Mr. Hernandez starts to pull on the blue canvas coveralls he wore yesterday. I wonder which of the dark stains are from my blood and which belong to his other victims. They’ve found five bodies they attribute to the Canyon Carver.

Will I really be number six?

Just another namelesscorpse discarded in the desert?

“I hope you got some sleep last night, little girl. You’re gonna need your energy.” He moves around to stand in front of me, between my legs, but there’s just something a bit off in his voice. “Shit, Avalon.” My name sounds wrong coming from between his lips. He rakes a shaking hand through his hair. “You are a pretty one. I get why my son picked you.” His eyes flicker. “Like father, like son.” His lips curl into a sneer, but the look that I think is meant to frighten me doesn’t touch his eyes.

He licks his lips, and it reminds me how dry my mouth is. “Water?” I ask quietly, hoping for some hint of humanity, knowing I’ll find none.

He slams his fist down on the table, just beneath my butt, and I startle, a shockwave of fear bursting through me. I should never have asked him for anything.

“You only need water for survival, bitch. What makes you think I want you to survive?”

I sob without tears.

I don’t understand him. I don’t understand this. I don’t understand why he’s doing this, how he became a monster. I don’t understand why he chose me.

“Please...Mr. Hernandez...” I try begging again, feeling like a small child. I’m just asking for help from my best friend’s dad. He should want to help me, to protect me from monsters because his son likes me, but he doesn’t. Heisthe monster. He only wants to end my life and I don’t know why. “Andrés…he’ll never forgive you if you kill me. Never. Just...just let me go. Take me back home. I won’t say a word to anyone. Not to my mom, not to Andrés, it’ll be...it’ll be our secret. Please.”

His face contorts into rage, as if begging for my life is unbecoming and reflects poorly on him as my captor. It’s the same expression that washed over his features yesterday just before he picked up the knife and hurt me in countless ways.

But this time, he doesn’t pick up the knife. He works the strap around my right ankle, unhooking it. Then the left. My breath is trapped inside my lungs—I’m afraid to breathe in fear it might stop him from unbinding me.

“Put your legs down.” He tells me after he undoes the straps latched around my thighs. Thick, red lines show the indentation of the leather straps around my ankles.

I carefully lift my shaking legs from the stirrups and try to control them, but they’ve been up in that position for so long that they’ve gone jelly-like and uncontrollable. They flop straight down to the hard wood beneath them on the table and pain pounds through my heels as they take the brunt of the impact. I hiss against the pain, squirming as pin pricks like needles creep from my toes to my hips, my legs fighting to wake up.

He unlatches my waist, my wrists, my elbows. Somehow, I know the end is coming. A swell of emotion overwhelms me, and I curl into the fetal position as soon as my body is free from the leather straps. My body is too weak to fight and I cry like I’ve never cried before.

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