Page 39 of Enslaved

“You’re no fucking saint. Everyone knows aboutEl Diablo…not all your women keep their mouths or legs shut when you’re done with them.”

I backhanded him across the mouth. “You don’t know jack-fuck about me you wanker. I’ve never forced a woman to want to belong to me. Obviously, you lack any of those talents. So, here’s what we are going to do. We know of at least five women you targeted. You are going to transfer five-hundred-thousand euros into their bank accounts and then get the fuck out of Capri.”

“I can’t, my father—”

I backhanded him again. “Your father granted me permission to feed you to the fucking fishes, if I wanted. You see, even he knows better than to fuck with me.”

I ripped his shirt open with my bare hands, took the sharp tip of my knife and carved my name into his pathetically puny chest. He screamed in agony as I used my knife like a pen and carved the words,EL DIABLO,on his chest. The blood dripped from the letters and the coppery smell of it filled my nostrils mixing with the piss on the floor.

But it wasn’t enough.

My rage that this skinny asshole almost took my dove, still fueled me. She needed avenging; her and every other woman this sick fuck touched. And that says a lot; since I’m the president of the sick-fuck club.

“Are you right or left-handed?”

He hesitated, then finally answered, “left.” His hesitation gave him away.

“You can’t lie to the devil.” I reached out, cut his right wrist free and held it down flat on a nearby table. Then, I held up my blade striking down hard and fast.

“FUUCCCKKKKKK!!!!” He cried, screamed, fell against the ropes in agony as my blade drove deep, severing bone, skewering him to the table. Then I let go of the handle, punching his stomach with left and right-hooks.

Finally, the beast felt satisfied.

“Take him a few miles out and drop him overboard. Let him try to swim to shore. Who knows, he might make it, if the sharks don’t get him first,” I said to Jin, who was standing in the corner watching the entire time. He nodded and moved forward.

Without a backward glance at Dante, I walked out only stopping to wash my hands in the stank bathroom with rusty leaking pipes. I thoroughly washed my hands, shook them dry, then methodically unrolled my sleeves, took my cufflinks out of my pocket and fastened them back on.

I held my own eyes in the mirror. Maybe I wasn’t as heartless as I always believed. I let him live. I avenged her. These are things people with a conscience do. Maybe those pills have already started working? Either way, I’m still going to hunt for my dove and punish her for leaving me.

I sought the familiar. Found my way to a youth hostel that charged twenty-five US dollars a night. With my faded backpack over one shoulder, I made my way down the cheap tiled floor to a room with three bunk beds and a shared bath.

Two Danish friends who were backpacking and fucking their way through Europe slept on the opposite bunks.

I showered for hours. Tried to wash away the memories of what I did with him. But it didn’t work, for after I washed his smell and seed from me, the bruises appeared. I was marked with his handprint. Other places showed the imprints of his thumbs or the scrape of his teeth. He sucked his way down my neck to my breasts leaving bruised love bites in his wake.

I hated him.Hated myself even more.

So why did I spend five nights huddled under the thin blanket, rubbing my slick folds, pinching my nipples—reliving every second of our night together?

The cheap bunk squeaked under my wriggling hips, the smell of my desire filled the small room. I never left, not even to eat. But stayed huddled, sleeping during the day and making myself come every night, while listening to the two blondes giggle about the men they met that night.

Finally, when the bruises turned from dark to light purple, I got up, dressed and walked to the nearest café.

Surely, Christos was looking for me elsewhere by now. I leisurely sat under the hot sun, my eyes covered by dark sunglasses, drank rich Italian espresso and ate buttered croissants. Pondered my future, but soon realized, I hated myself for liking what I had done. Remembered we kissed just as passionately as we fucked. I closed my eyes, crossing my legs hard—still hearing the whispered words in Greek he nuzzled against my ear as he thrust in and out of me.

E wasn’t my drug. He was. I’m in withdrawal. One hit was all it took to get hooked. I just need more time to forget the feel of him, I lied to myself.

I walked back to the hostel, knowing I needed to find another job and return to the land of the living. My cell phone was dead and off for days. In my haste to escape Christos, I had forgotten to my charger. “Do you mind if I borrow your phone charger?”

My roommate shrugged, took a drag of her cigarette and gestured for me to take it. I plugged mine in, and it turned on after a few minutes.

After spending nearly a week in this small, stank room—I suddenly couldn’t breathe. So, I left my phone to charge and laced up my sneakers. A hike up the famous cliffs above Capri would surely clear my head. The air, thick with salt and the smell of brewing coffee, helped pull me out of the self-imposed funk that I let myself wallow in for days. With a ball cap pulled low over my eyes and my golden hair hidden underneath, I walked down cobblestone streets past couples enjoying their mid-morning stroll. Hand-in-hand many walked oblivious to the woman walking past them with haunted eyes and a wounded soul. I didn’t know how to get rid of the self-loathing. I was never big on drinking or drugs…but I needed a way to release the poison in my blood. The stain of him was all over me, like an invisible cloak.

I reached the entrance to a cliff path, uncaring of the sweat dripping down between the blades of my back. I climbed higher and higher under the hot Italian sun, pondering my next move, wishing I could just be the girl I was ten days ago.

My legs burned as I placed one tired foot in front of the other. When I finally reached the peak, I sat down on the rocky terrain overlooking the harbor, knowing why. Why I hated the world in that moment—I wasn’t who I thought I was. I wanted everything I had done with the devil and even worse—I wanted more. I tried to hide from it by staying in bed for a week. But I can’t hide from the truth anymore. I’ll never be his sub, but I wanted the hard, rough sex we shared. Sex never felt so good. I know I was on E, but also admit even before all that, I secretly wanted him.

Finally, with that self-admission, I sat in the hot sun, making peace with it. So what if I’m not the fun-loving tomboy I was labeled as in my teen years? Maybe I don’t have a clue who I am. Like puzzle pieces snapping into place, it all started to make sense; my constant need for adventure, dropping out of Cal State, refusing to be molded into the country club wife my mother yearned for me to be.

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