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I inhale slowly, deliberately, as quietly as possible. On the Island, the constant start and stop of golf carts on the grounds was like a sitcom laugh track, punctuating the rhythm of the days.
No golf cart hum.
On the Island, helicopters came and went at least twice a day. So far, no helicopter other than ours.
And on the Island, ice cream trucks didn’t exist. The tinkle of a truck’s melody announcing its presence to kids and ice-cream-hungry adults shatters my theory.
No.
Not the Island.
My heart races as I take in the scent. It’s nothing like the Island, inside or out. All of the buildings there had an institutional, bleach-like scent. And outdoors was filled with salty ocean air.
This smells like someone’s home.
Oh, God, please don’t tell me I’m at John’s house.
“Sleeping Beauty awakens,” says a new voice, not John’s. It doesn’t sound like Blaine, who is California cool, inside and out, born and bred.
Must be Stellan.
How does he know I’m awake?
Before I can react, the hood comes off and I spasm out in a coughing fit.
“Hello, Lindsay.” I can’t close my eyes fast enough. It’s Stellan.
I say nothing.
He nudges me with his toe. “You’re being rude. You won’t like what we do to rude little girls.”
My jaw tightens. I couldn’t talk if I wanted to. I imagine Drew pulling Stellan away from me and punching him. My neck releases slightly at the image.
Time.
Time is my friend. The longer I can buy time, the better the chance Drew can get me before they, well...
Before they kill me.
A hopeless black hole takes over at my core. It expands, like a pupil dilating, taking over my bones, my organs, my flesh, my everything.
I’m about to be hurt badly.
Tortured.
Violated.
And I can’t stop it. Being drugged would be preferable to this. Maybe later, I’ll beg for that.
I can try to lessen the severity. But Drew’s not coming anytime soon.
I freeze. My stomach feels heavy and painful, turning and twisting until I start to retch again.
“You puke on me and I crack open your eye socket,” Stellan says calmly, not making eye contact. “Again.”
Again.
All the surgeries four years ago pour through me like a montage. So many. I felt like Humpty Dumpty back then. A very, very drugged-up egg with a shell that needed to be repaired. If he’s suggesting -- implying – flat-out saying they’re going to treat me like that again, I might as well die now.
