REprisal - Kathy Coopmans
Chapter One
Clove
I’m sitting here nursing my three-month-old daughter. My eyes drift over her light brown hair, then to her face, where bright blue eyes stare into mine. The connection I have with her is indescribable. It’s a miracle she’s even here. I have been counting the days since she was born in my head; that’s the only way I know how old she is.
She closes her eyes, drifting sound asleep. Her small lips gradually stop their sucking, clinging still to my breast. She’s perfect. This precious little girl is the only thing keeping me from losing what’s left of my mind.
Every day I recall more of the time I have spent in this makeshift room, which resembles my own bedroom back home down to every last damn detail. Trent and my bitch of a mother have kept me locked away in this room for God knows how long. If she was born full term, I have been here for a year. A whole damn year.
I do remember saying I was living in hell the day I first found out Trent was my husband Turner’s identical twin brother. A part of me still is, and always will. My angel is the one person who has kept me from succeeding this time in killing myself and escaping this nightmare.
I named her ‘Journey’. Her name speaks for itself. It’s been a journey for her to get here, a long road. I wish I could remember more of my pregnancy, like the way I felt when she first moved inside of me. Most mothers would not want to relive morning sickness, but I do. I wish more than anything to remember all of it.
Instead, my brain is clouded with memories of Trent coming into this room with food. Me asking a million questions, none of them getting answers. Will they ever be answered? Will I ever get the hell out of here, and back to my father and brother Zack?
A hollow pit of nothingness stagnates in my chest when I think of what they must be going through, not knowing if I am dead or alive. I hope and pray that at least they found Turner and gave him the proper burial he deserved.
Journey stirs at this precise moment, unclasping from my breast, stretching and yawning. She’s perfect. Her tiny features are a mixture of both Turner’s and mine. At least I keep telling myself she is his daughter. She has to be. I won’t love my daughter any less if she isn’t, though.
Trent denies he’s her father; he says it’s impossible because he had a vasectomy a year before he kidnapped Turner and faked his identity. I’m clinging onto that with every ounce of life I have left in me, even though he’s lied about everything else since the day he got off that plane.
He’s confessed his undying love for me time and time again, swearing he was going to make sure Turner got out of the hellhole where he was held hostage, beaten, then shot to death. And all because of simple greed.
Somehow I know my mother is behind this whole fucked up, twisted shit. How she found out about the twenty million dollar inheritance Turner was supposed to receive is beyond me. She thinks she can break me, tear me down piece by piece by keeping me isolated, away from the real world. She underestimates me.
She may not love my brother and me, the selfish, bitter, conniving bitch, but she underestimates the power of love I have for Journey. One way or another I am going to find a way to get us out of here, and when I do, that will be the day she can say she regrets the day I was born.
As for Trent, he may think he has out-maneuvered me in this game of life and death. I am locked away, kept as a prisoner in this mockery of my real life. My husband is dead, murdered at the hands of his traitorous brother. But you know what? You’ve taught me well, Trent Calloway. This time I will be the last one standing.
Positioning my baby girl on my shoulder, I rock back and forth in the chair, singing to her, praising her, telling her how much I love her. I keep all of my thoughts curbed in my head and a peaceful expression on my face. Tina, my so-called mother, has video cameras in every corner of this room and bathroom. She’s fucking crazy.
Journey is fast asleep again.