Page 10 of Beast

An island. He’d taken me to an island.

No, no, and no.

What was going on?

I screamed out loud. I yelled at the top of my lungs; so loud I didn’t even think my voice could reach high.

Tomas opened the door once again. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I ran to him, with all the fight and strength I had in me, and punched his chest.

He grabbed my hands as if they were light feathers touching him. “Calm down!”

I shook my head furiously, refusing to calm down, as he eloquently put it.

“You drugged me and kidnapped me. Calm down? You’re fucking joking!”

He held on to my wrists as I continued to shake. When he wouldn’t let go, I got more hysterical. I kicked him, but he didn’tbudge. Then I tried to bite him and he let go. I was so shocked and tripped to the floor, then I covered my eyes.

“The door’s not fucking locked. When you decide to calm down, then you can walk around and see you’re not a prisoner.”

“So, I can leave any time I want?” I asked with some hope, because I thought I was locked in and I couldn’t leave, but the way he was talking, I’d misjudged the situation.

“No.”

“Then I’m a prisoner since I can’t leave of my own free will.”

That was obvious as he rolled his eyes and walked away. He’d drugged me and brought me here, wherever here was, so of course I was a prisoner. I just wasn’t in a dungeon or anything.

I opened my mouth to say something, but then I thought he may know about me already. He may know everything about me. I imagined this picturesque scene appealing to someone who wanted to get away and escape, but for me, it was just a beautiful prison. As I slowly left my room, I looked at what was on either side of me.

One side looked like an open-plan living room; every window was a door. Tiled flooring and a couple of straw sofas with comfy cushions. A wooden dining table, which had only two stools to accompany it. There was nothing modern about this place. It had a ceiling fan with lighting, but no television or modern gadgets. It was bare, but the view made up for the lack of furnishings and sparse décor.

To the other side was a kitchen, with a few hints of modern convenience, but otherwise as dated and sparse as the rest of the house. Once again it was white, like the walls and the ceiling, but not the beige tiled flooring.

I moved to the stairs, which were adjacent to the living room and within easy reach. As I started to climb down, I noticed he wasn’t around. Part of me should have been happy he wasn’t here and I could figure out a way to escape, but as I ran downthe stairs, I realized why the room wasn’t locked. There really was nothing but sea, sand, and palm trees. Someone’s perfect paradise. Anyone else’s, but it for sure wasn’t mine.

I opened the front door and went outside. The sun shone in a bright, blue sky. I walked across the beach a few feet and sank into the sand, wishing that this was just a dream. He hadn’t kidnapped me and locked me in a dungeon. No, he’d kidnapped me and I felt like a prisoner on death row. At least those criminals were given their favorite meal to mark their last day on Earth. That was what was happening to me. I’d been brought to paradise to enjoy my final days on Earth.

He was going to kill me, for sure.

I knew it; I’d seen it in his eyes earlier.

A loud scream came from the trees and jerked me out of my thoughts. It sounded like Tomas like he was in pain. I stood and paused.

I shouldn’t care. He’d taken me against my will, but curiosity got the better of me, and I followed the noise.

There he was, punching into a tree with all his might. He wanted to hurt himself. He ignored the blood as it trickled from his fist, and with every punch, he cried even louder.

I backed away because I wondered as he punched if every single time, he was thinking I was the tree.

I watched him for a while until he hurt himself too much that he couldn’t continue. I finally turned away. It was as with every blow, I didn’t get the satisfaction I should have. I didn’t feel like,great, he kidnapped me, so he deserved to hurt himself.

If anything, it was the complete opposite, because it was self-inflicted. Seeing him weak and vulnerable like that, took away the fear I once had of him. If he did think of me as the tree, then something made him want to hurt himself and not me.

I backed away as he growled and sank to the ground, burying his head in his hands. I wondered if my father had ever felt theway when he’d taken a life. If he was remorseful, then maybe he had a soul. But knowing he’d never been this way just made me think of him as the monster. The monster he’d shown himself to be once I left to go to college.

I’d never seen my dad do anything else but drink on occasion. Maybe that was his way of dealing with his pain; his pain of being a monster.

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