6
Day 14 - Juliet
My heart raced with each step I took tracing my path back to my tree house. An expert at trails, I’d learned my way around the forest when my uncle dropped me in the woods, hoping I couldn’t escape the prison of trees. Call it photographic memory, or just dumb luck, but I always found my way home. Maybe dumb luck was the correct terminology as his trailer was no home. I hadn’t really had a place of my own from the moment I was dumped on his door until I moved in with Chellie in Baltimore and took classes at the community college. She was the reason I had the job at The Front Door.
My pulse kept pace with the brisk pounding of my feet on the dark jungle floor. Secluded on an island didn’t leave me without some amenities. A visit from my counselor was due in less than a week. Lillian Varga was going to hear from me. I couldn’t stay on this island if he was here. Everything about him said he wanted to hurt me, and despite the knife in my hand, I couldn’t bring myself to harm him. I’d already done the unthinkable.
Rick Fontaine had been a monster. The moment I entered The Front Door, I knew I shouldn’t have been there. His eyes roamed my body like my uncle’s once did. Power was written in the edge of his jaw. His dark, beady eyes reminded me of a bird of prey. But I needed the job, and Chellie assured me Rick was harmless. The Front Door was a reputable establishment—a hot spot of the local club scene with two full floors of five-star food and unique beverages. It was the third floor that worried me.
I had graduated to serving the upper level, but my advancement was muddled with mixed intentions. If I worked there, I needed to pay the fee. Initiation was given by Rick…and his friends. I wasn’t a willing participant. And he had been one of them. His name was Tack Corbin. I remember seeing him under the red lights. Stoned on something. Drunk on another thing. He always had a woman hanging off his arm. I never understood why he needed to take me. He’d never shown one bit of interest in me prior to that night, but then again, none of them had noticed me other than Rick.
I shivered at the memory as I climbed the ladder to the comfort of my home. The vision of him was hard to shake. That moment in his eyes where he peered down at me, reaching for my gagged lips, and then without pressure, he breathed words into my mouth.
I don’t want to hurt you.
I wanted to believe him, but I couldn’t believe one word uttered from the lips of those men. Rick had his turn first. Tack was next. Who knows how many would have followed, if Brandon hadn’t walked in. My heart sunk to my stomach at the thought of Brandon. Sweet, gentle Brandon who tried to befriend me. His smile innocent, his attention refreshing. I’d been damaged goods after Rick had his way. Brandon would never look at me the same. He would have thought I’d been willing, as most women who entered the third floor apparently were.
Ignoring the weight in my belly, I crawled onto my bed. I had removed my soaked clothing and lay with my palm over my racing heart. I hadn’t realized I still clutched the knife in my fist until I undressed. I’d ran and climbed without releasing it as if it were an extension of me. Maybe it was, as I had transformed into a killer after that night. Murder wasn’t my intention, but I killed nonetheless. And Rick had deserved so much more. They both had, but something stopped me from hurting Tack. Memories of that night morphed the two men. He’d hurt me, hadn’t he? It had always been a question. My imagination hopeful that he hadn’t; my memory positive that he had.
“We’re going to play this my way,” he’d said against my lips. “Blink if you understand me.”
Afraid to close my eyes, they rapidly blinked before opening as wide as would allow. I shut down after that, no longer able to feel my skin or sense penetration. It was better this way. Better to pretend, focus on something other than him and the cloth gagging my mouth.
In the darkness of my room, the oppressive weight of him returned to me. I could feel him over me, between my thighs, breathing into my neck as he spoke to me. I couldn’t remember what he said. I didn’t want to enjoy the pleasure he professed to give. But as I lay in the dark heat, in my jungle surroundings, my hesitant fingers tickled over my tight nipples, eventually pinching them into twin peaks. My body arched at the sensation and a ripple snaked to my belly. Warmth spread between my legs, and I separated them, allowing any hint of a breeze to caress my skin prickling with a strange need.
I didn’t want to be thinking of him, but somehow, he was all I could see. Those deep green eyes as rich as the palm trees. I imagined him between my thighs, and this time he would not control me. Tender fingertips traced a line down skin prickly and needy. Fingers slipped into my own underwear, tracing over sensitive folds before finding that special spot. Tender flicks, pleasurable circles, wet heat, and I detonated. My head rose from the bed as I called out his name, despite wanting to kill him.
“I hate you,” I yelled to the heavy heat of my room, then fell back on the bed, unsatisfied with the performance and in desperate need of a repeat. I stroked again, the pleasure rising, and I rearranged my memory to suit my needs. His fingers fluttered. His tongue flicked. His dick filled me, and I came a second time with the fantasy of it meaning something.
+ +
I woke with a start. The sound of a motorboat in the distance, rising above the general chirps and squeaks of the tropics around me. My bra and underwear were plastered to my moist skin. The night had been warm, and my hair stuck to my neck and forehead. I rose for my clothing and dressed sluggishly. My midnight self-seduction left me exhausted and drowsy. Climbing down from the tree fort, I prepared myself to meet Lillian at the supply dock, a spot where she visited every two weeks to provide canned goods, bottled water, and fresh linens.
“Our intention isn’t for you to starve or even feel like a prisoner. This island is meant to bring you in touch with yourself. Forget your sin, reconcile with what happened, and figure out how to make yourself whole again.” It was a social experiment, not a self-sacrifice. The experience wasn’t very social, however. I’d been alone often enough in life to know how to exist with loneliness and not be lonesome. There was a difference. I’d been writing daily in the journals provided, and so far, it had helped. Anger. Devastation. Repression. Thoughts and emotions bled onto the pages. But still, I felt nothing. I hated myself even more for giving in to self-soothing with images of him.
I stood at the end of the wooden platform and found myself staring off into the distance. There was no motor boat. No counselor. Loose threads of hair danced in the gentle morning wind, caressing my cheeks. Off on the horizon was another island. How far was it? I wondered. Could I swim to it? I couldn’t live on this island knowing he was breathing my air and swimming in my water. Not only was it my hatred of him, but that sneaky sensation that I was strangely tempted by him. He’d already taken what he wanted from me, and yet I wasn’t satisfied he’d taken enough. It was my turn for taking, and I wouldn’t be asking. He certainly hadn’t.