They also don’t know one of those passengers is now dead and getting dumped into the sea—or ocean.
What does it matter? Shelly is now fodder for bottom dwellers. I think that is some awesome karmic justice.
Honestly, I’m guessing we’re in the Gulf of Mexico. It seems to be a hotspot for transporting slaves from tourist destinations in the Gulf to Colombia.
Colombia.
What the hell happened to Zoe?
I say a prayer for my friend, hoping somebody rescued her.
Although, knowing her Guardian, a man I know as Three, but Zoe knows as Axel, I bet he tore through heaven and earth to find and free his girl. He did it once, and he’ll do it again.
There’s no stopping a Guardian in love.
But I don’t have that. All I have is me.
I’m the broken doll stuck trying to save herself. What I wouldn’t give for a Guardian to save me.
Right now, the key to my survival is abject obedience to anything and everything Bossman wants. A shiver of revulsion ripples down my spine. I’ve done sick and twisted things in the past, but this is going to take me to a whole other level of hell.
Bossman wants a willing and compliant slave? Why is it that the weakest men are the ones who do the most vile things?
I’ll give him a taste of willing and compliant, at least until I kill him.
What’s that going to feel like?
Bossman killed two men recently, and I sense zero remorse in my captor. It’s like business as usual. He’s more irritated than anything else. There’s not an ounce of compassion, or regret, in Bossman. He’s just pissed he’s going to have to watch over me all by himself. He’d like to think he’s all that, but he’s nothing more than another cheap Joe.
Been there.
Done that.
Haven’t we discussed this enough?
I know men like Bossman. I may have precipitated Jack and Shelly’s deaths, but I didn’t kill them. Bossman made that decision. Their deaths are on him.
As for me?
Bossman will be the first person, and hopefully the last, that I’ll kill.
Surprised?
Don’t be. With the shitty life I’ve been dealt, I’m due one murder guilt free.
And I wonder how it’s going to change me? Honestly, I don’t think it’ll do a damn thing. Thinking about killing him stirs nothing inside of me.
Like, nothing.
That kind of thing is supposed to leave a mark on your soul, but I feel like I’ll be leaving the world a better place.
Fuck Bossman.
Fuck me.
Fuck this shitty life.
If God wanted my soul to be white and pristine, he would’ve dealt me a different hand. As it is, I’ll present myself at the pearly white gates with ire and spite, demanding entrance for the evil I wiped from the face of the world.
I’ll begin with Bossman, and I don’t care what that does to my eternal soul. I won’t grieve the murder of a killer.
I give a start as I doze and jerk back awake. With my hands tied over my head, I can’t lie down. I can’t lean against the bulkhead. There is no getting comfortable, but I drift, and I doze. Somewhere in the wretchedness of my dreams, I dream of an avenging angel; a Guardian sent to redeem my soul.
In particular, I dream of Four.
But that doesn’t happen.
Instead, some interminable time later, Bossman returns carrying two plates steaming with food. He enters the small cabin and closes the door behind him. He unties my hands and shoves one of the plates beneath my nose.
“Eat.” He scoops a spoonful of slop into his mouth. “Your Master won’t be pleased if you’re skin and bones.”
For a moment, the briefest of moments, I wonder if engaging him in conversation is worth my time, but Bossman’s piss-poor attitude remains. He doesn’t give a shit about me, and I couldn’t care less about him.
We eat in silence, and after I’m done, the rope wraps back around my wrists.
For three days, we repeat this same routine. Bossman ties me up, disappears beyond that door, and returns sometime later to feed and water his charge. He rarely speaks and the scowl on his face deepens with each passing day.
The tension between us rises, and all I can think about is how I can cut through my bonds, and slit his throat, before he can kill me.
Six
Moira
Three days pass and I’m no closer to devising a plan of escape than the day Shelly died—Correction: the day he was put down like the animal he was. I prefer to think of it that way