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“No, I don’t understand, but I will try.” My voice is shaky, and I slightly nod my head in his hands. I’m not sure what I’m really agreeing to. What I do know is I don’t want this beautiful criminal to stop showing me compassion, and showering me with his soft words of mercy.
Satisfied with my answer, he pulls away slowly. My heart racing as he lowers his hand and I think he’s going for my breasts, but he doesn’t. He grazes just below my neckline, scooping up my medallion necklace. His simple touch against my skin keeps my heart beating rapidly, and I find myself dwelling on the confusion of what this feeling is he has over me. What is this supposed to mean? There is something undeniable here—at least there is on my end—and it makes me angry at myself.
“This looks like it may be special to you, no?” He cocks his head to the side as he studies my medallion; then he turns the silver heart around, looking at the back’s inscription. “What does this mean to you?” I don’t want to tell him what it really means to me. This was my mother’s piece, and my father saved it for me until I was old enough to wear it. I rarely ever take it off as it’s the only piece of my mother I have left. It goes without saying what this heirloom means to me.
I quietly speak with trepidation, “Well, it reads, ‘Family, where life begins and love never ends…love eternal.’ My father had this inscribed on the backside for me on my third birthday. I mean, really,” I shrug, “the message is self-explanatory.”
“It’s heavy.”
“Yeah, it’s made of pure silver. It’s called a triskele; it’s a Celtic symbol. I don’t know what it meant to my dad when he bought it, because we’re not Irish. I guess he picked it out for its meaning of eternal love more than anything.” For his undying love toward my mother.
“Eternal love,” he says, repeating me, “interesting.” He’s silent for a moment, as if he’s reflecting on something.
“Yeah, my dad would always tell me I was his light during his darkest days. It’s supposed to represent love and light.” Come to think of it, though, I haven’t heard my father tell me those words in over a decade. Maybe he felt he told me enough times and didn’t need to repeat it. I don’t know.
“That’s one hell of a unique stone,” Travis says in awe, looking closely at the centerpiece of the symbol. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it, ever.”
“It’s just like a ruby only rarer. It’s called a red beryl.” I’m not much in the mood to elaborate on anything right now, but talking about my family at least makes me feel a tad calmer. What he doesn't need to know is just how rare and expensive this stone is. It’s quality being one of the highest grades available and very hard to come by. There is no way I would ever be able to replace it.
When I was little, my father was adamant about me wearing the necklace as I got older. He made it a point to tell me to never be afraid of wearing it for fear of losing it. He would always say: this is a piece of your mother, and it’s meant to be worn, not gathering dust in an armoire. She would want you wearing it.
“It’s very beautiful, Julianna,” he says sincerely. “You must be a very rare gem yourself to have been given that.” He studies it for another moment before gently placing it back on my chest.
It’s then I realize I shouldn’t have said the stone was rare. I’m dealing with hardened criminals, and I cringe at the thought of them taking this from me. “If there is only one thing I am allowed to ask or have, it’s to please never take this from me,” I plead earnestly. “This is everything to me,” I say, clutching the symbol in my hand.
“I understand, Julianna.” He shakes his head. “No one has any intention of taking that from you. I know it’s something special to you.”
“It is,” I say on a whisper. More than anyone will ever know.
He nods his head and pulls away from me, then tilts his head to the side while taking a tendril of my hair and tucking it behind my ear. “Would you care for a sleeping pill, so you can rest well tonight?” He looks at me with pure concern, which again throws me into a tailspin of confusion. “I’m sure your nerves are shot, and you won’t sleep well...if at all. I don’t want to see you lay awake all night tossing and turning in worry. Your rest is important to me.”
Somehow, I don’t think my rest is truly all that important to them. I do know he’s right, though; I am all shaken up. I know I will go out of my mind, restlessly tossing and turning during the night, fearing tomorrow and the unknown. I’d rather be knocked out than awake and trying to get a grip on my escalating anxiety. Maybe if I wake up well-rested, the shock will clear, and I can go right into my next phase of captivity—escape planning. One can only hope.
