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How did an angel fall so far from heaven?
Dahlia
Dear God,
Me again.
I know, I know. You’ve already given me a second chance, and I have no right to ask for a third. Especially because I didn’t keep any of my promises the first time. The one about me believing in you, or about going to church every other Sunday or volunteering at a soup kitchen once a month. But this time, it’ll be different. I swear to you, I’ll be better. I’ll stop making bad decisions. I’ll stop chasing the answer to what if? I’ll keep my head down and go back to school. I’ll be a better person, you’ll see.
In captivity, keeping track of what you can stops you from losing your mind completely. In this strange room, I can keep track of time, thanks to the clock above the fireplace. The small hand has passed the twelve six times, so I know I’ve been here for three days and then some. What I can’t keep track of, is how many times I’ve been kicked in the stomach, punched in the head, or made to drink water from a dog bowl because “if I wanted to act like a bitch, I’ll be treated like one.” How many times I’ve pissed down my leg in fear, or blacked out from strong hands around my throat, choking the breath out of me.
I also can’t keep track of how many times I’ve prayed to a God I don’t believe in.
A chain of bad decisions got me here. I’m the queen of them, have been ever since my parents were killed in a car crash seven years ago and I decided life was too short to file each decision into “good” or “bad.” My first bad decision was getting on the back of that motorbike six years ago, on my first day of college.
And like I promised God in one of my million prayers, trying to steal a diamond from the Van der Boor’s yacht would be my last.
I’m a liar and thief but that doesn’t mean I owe the Van der Boors my body. I learned a long time ago that once you let a monster claim what’s between your legs, they’ll never let you go. This time, it’ll be different. I’ll fight. I’ll kick and bite and scream until they get bored of me. Until they realize they have no use for me. But it’s been three days since I’ve eaten, and I’m broken and weak. In the beginning, I’d only see the black dots swirling in front of my eyes when they’d strangle me, but now they are permanent. I’m bruised and bloodied and swollen, and the shackles around my ankles and wrists are growing heavier and heavier by the hour. I don’t know how much fight I’ve got left in me.
I’m propped up against the radiator, the cold steel pressed against my back the only thing keeping me conscious, when I hear footsteps.
Instinctively, every muscle in my tired body clenches, ready for another battle. But instead of coming into my cage, they turn off, fading further down the corridor. I can hear murmurs and laughter, and when I hear a gruff American accent, my heart hitches in my chest.
The Van der Boors and their guests never speak in English to each other, only Afrikaans. Curiosity outweighs caution and I scramble across the rug to the crack of the door and push my face against it.
Across the corridor, past the two guards flanking the door opposite, there’s a man. He’s sitting in an armchair, and he’s staring right at me. His glare is unwavering and it burns every nerve ending on my skin. I can’t look away. Maybe I should, it might save me another beating, but the blistering intensity in his eyes has me locked in.
Dear God, have you sent my third chance? A guardian angel?
He doesn’t look like an angel. His eyes are cold and emotionless and the network of angles that make up his face is hard and sharp. Not that I can see him properly through the one swollen eye pressed up against this door—
Oh shit, he’s on his feet. Now he’s moving, stalking. Past the guards and across the corridor, towards my cage.
Using my heels, I scuffle backwards desperate to get away from the approaching man. If he wants his wicked way with me, then at least I’ll have a head start by not being within a fist’s reach the second he crosses the threshold. The end of the futon presses into my ass just as the doors crash open.
He looms in the doorway and our eyes lock. Closer now, I can see him better, and what I see makes my heart do a double-beat against my rib cage.
Jesus Christ, he’s gorgeous. Tall, sculpted, with gunmetal gray eyes that are still attempting to penetrate my soul. He’s dressed in all black—turtleneck sweater, slim-fit jeans, and sneakers—and his shaved head only accentuates the sharpness of high cheekbones and square jaw. Immediately I think of those haute couture models inVogueandGQmagazine.So unusual looking, they are other-worldly.
Heaven-sent?
We stare at each other for another beat, before he turns around.
No, please don’t go,I silently beg his back. But he just stares at the guards flanking the room opposite. I’m not surprised they glance away if he glares at them like he glared at me. When they turn their attention to their polished boots, he quietly shuts the door and gives me his full attention once more.
The silence is hot and heavy, crackling with the unknown. It’s me who breaks first.
“Please help me.”
He reminds me of a big cat, a sleek, black panther, as he glides across the floor with a chilling stillness about him.
“Stand.”
The command slips from his lips so quietly I barely hear him over the blood pounding around my ears. My heart sinks. This panther isn’t going to save me. He’s here to eat me.
Bringing my knees to my chest, I croak, “Fuck you.”
I’m startled by how quick he darts across the room, crouches, and wraps his hand around my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace myself for what happens next. Usually, it’s my head hitting a concrete wall or his hand squeezing my airways until I pass out. His grip doesn’t choke me, but it’s ice-cold and firm.
