rather than “murdered on top of me.”
I cling to the little things in life to save my sanity, and that is a very little thing.
I’m well aware of what awaits me at the end of this voyage. Thinking about it twists my insides into gnarled tangles I can’t unravel.
With each passing hour, it becomes more urgent to do something.
The problem is, how do I take down a man nearly twice as strong as me inside the confines of a tiny ship’s stateroom? Is that even the right word? Hell, if I know.
When Bossman is around, I play the role of a meek and mild female who’s lost the will to fight. That first night, right after Shelly’s death, I kept my eyes down and complied with every command Bossman gave. There was no fight when he ordered me to climb into the top bunk and no struggle when he tied me up for the night.
None.
And I have a phobia of getting tied up.
The morning after the whole head-bashing and brain-spilling event, I went to work cleaning up the gore after Bossman finished his breakfast. I used one of the threadbare towels from the small lavatory attached to our cabin to scoop up the gory mess and flush it down the toilet. Then I used toilet water to rinse that fetid towel and mop everything up, over and over again.
Not my best day, and I’ve had some pretty shitty days. As for doing disgusting things, been there, done that, got the scars to prove it. I should make that my little jingle.
It would be a killer tune.
I’ll say this. Mopping up Shelly’s brains takes the cake when it comes to disgusting things.
It took the better part of the day to scour away the bloodstains, but I’m proud of my handiwork. I can barely see the blood anymore.
Bossman watched me on hands and knees, saying nothing, fantasizing about everything. He thought to hide his arousal, but recognizing a horny man is one of my superpowers.
When he excused himself and shut the door to the lavatory, I knew exactly what he was doing, and it didn’t take him long for the filthy thoughts in his head to speed his release.
I had two goals and accomplished them with five glowing stars. The first was to clean up the mess before it made the small cabin stink.
Check. Done.
My second goal was to set the stage for Bossman and enflame his desire. Me on my knees, serving him, even though he never asked me to clean up the mess, planted a seed in his head.
Bossman’s tired of being the transporter and deliverer of slaves. He’s ready for the main event—ready to be the monster on the other side of the transaction.
After the day Shelly died, he left the cabin several times, sometimes returning with food, sometimes not. I made it a point to never sit on the lower bunk.
That’s his spot.
And since he always sits on the one small chair at the tiny desk, doing whatever he does on that phone of his, I eat on the floor, where I swallow down my pride and the slop he feeds me.
We rarely speak.
In my spare time, I relocate Shelly’s knife dozens of times but never find an opening to use it. My hiding places are too secure. Getting to it quickly and easily must be a priority. I finally return it to its original hiding place. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do with it.
I’m high as a kite if I think I’ll survive a knife fight with a man who keeps a gun tucked into the back of his pants. My hope is he’ll accidentally pull the trigger and shoot his ass off. Now that would be hysterical.
Some of Four’s lessons come to mind, ways to wield a knife and disable my opponent. The thing is, Bossman is much stronger than me. The cabin is small, just the bunk and the desk with its utilitarian chair. This place isn’t much larger than a prison cell.
So yeah, it’s problematic.
Bossman rewards my good behavior on the evening of the third day. He leaves the cabin without tying me to the top bunk.
Freedom!
I feel like William Wallace leading his Scottish clansmen on a charge down the battlefield.
Don’t ask. This is my brain and this is where it takes me.
Not that I do anything with my newfound freedom except sit in his chair. Yes, I plop my sore ass on his chair. It hurts from sitting on the