Page 5 of Redemption Island

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.

7

Day 15 - Tack

“She’s here on the island,” I snapped before Garvey even left the boat. He hopped into the knee-deep water and bent over the sideboard to reach for supplies. It was my first formal check-in. Every fifteen days, I warranted a visit. At first, I thought it would be to double-check I hadn’t killed myself. After my first few days on the island, I looked forward to the visit for the ability to speak to another human being. Today, I was pissed.

“How could you place her on this island with me?”

“Who?” Garvey asked, the bulkiness of his weight struggling with the box of canned goods and dry mixes. I cursed the food. I wanted a hot shower and a fresh shave. Without a mirror, I was struggling to remove the heavy growth of facial hair. I didn’t need to turn into an island Yeti. I didn’t need to go native. I was here for soul-searching, which hadn’t appeared.

“That girl. The one that I…” I couldn’t finish the statement. I hadn’t done anything. That had been my plea. I never penetrated her and careful examination of the videotapes could prove that. Instead, the evidence made me guilty. I’d disguised my movement so well, it appeared as if I entered her when I hadn’t. Either way, the conditions of our surroundings and the intention of our group was clear. She was there to be taken.

“There’s no one else on this island,” Garvey attempted to assure me, but his voice was only half convincing.

“She’s here. Over there,” I pointed in the general direction of both the pond and her escape the previous night. I hadn’t been able to find her, despite my daily wanderings through the trees. It was as if she appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as easily. Garvey looked in the same direction and back at me. I swiped a hand through my hair, tugging at the longer ends in frustration. I didn’t feel neat. I wanted to be clean.

“I hope you brought soap. Maybe you could help me shave,” I demanded, treating Garvey like a servant instead of the moderator he was meant to be. His suggestion was how I got in this mess. His great-grandfather and mine have some long-standing agreement. If either family ever got in trouble, the other was to help or something like that. Some first settlers bullshit. Instead of jail, I’d been offered restorative justice. Without enough research, I took the offering. My father had assured me it was better this way.

“Shave yourself,” Colton offered. The younger image of Garvey, slim and trim in his cappuccino skin, stared back at me with mischief in his dark eyes. We were practically the same age, but his eyes spoke of wisdom older than me. He followed his elder to my tent, carrying another box of supplies.

“Are you journaling?” Garvey asked in his steady monotone. “It will help with the illusions.”

“I’m not seeing things,” I snapped.

“Ganja will help with that as well,” Colton chuckled as he passed me.

“Colton,” Garvey warned.

“Kidding,” said the younger native, but the thought piqued my interest.

“There’s marijuana on this island?” I asked, looking off at the distant greenery that dressed nearly ninety-nine percent of the island.