Chapter 2 Grace #2
I scream again and again ignoring his laughter until my voice gives out.
Opening my eyes, I look around at where I am and realize why the man sounded so cocky.
We’re at a deserted beach. Long stretches of rocky, jagged peaks and white sand stretch as far as the eye can see.
This must be the only spot in Ibiza that isn’t crawling with tourists.
There’s no chance of anyone saving me or helping me.
It's over.
The fight in me gives up. What’s the point? I can’t win against these men.
“I thought you would have more fight in you, but it’s good to know you’re smart enough to tell when you’re beat.” The man’s strong arms stay tight around me.
My eyes zero in on the van at the beach’s edge and watch as it gets smaller and smaller the further we get from it. With each step of my kidnapper the life I once knew disappears too.
“Move,” the man commands as I feel the cold steel of his gun between my shoulder blades.
My feet hit a wooden deck. I look up and notice we are boarding at the back of a luxury boat.
If this was any other time, I would be excited about stepping onto a luxurious boat with a man.
Spending the day under the sunshine, sipping cocktails. Pretend that’s what’s happening, Grace.
The gun in the back makes the reality of the situation evident no matter how much my mind tries to play it.
Stepping into the boat’s interior, the luxurious surrounds of deep brown mahogany, creamy white furniture, the fully stocked bar, and a dining table set up for four with linens and fine China is a stark contrast to what’s happening on board.
“Down the stairs,” the deep voice growls as he pushes me toward them.
My feet falter at the top of the stairs, my knees locking together.
My body has taken over where my mind cannot, and it’s saying do not go downstairs.
Then my kidnapper pushes the gun harder into my back, my body relents, and I descend into the depths of hell.
I stumble as my wobbly legs slightly miss the bottom step.
Thankfully my kidnapper’s hands are tight around me and save me from face-planting into the teak flooring.
He lets out a disgruntled huff at my clumsiness.
“In there.” He shoves me toward an open door.
I stumble at the force with which he pushes me and my hands land on the bed. The sound of the door closing and the clear click of a lock echoes around me. I can hear the loud thud of footsteps walking away from my door, then back up the stairs.
Guess this is it.
I look around at the boat’s bedroom, my eyes focusing on how small it is.
Claustrophobia claws at the edges of my mind as I stare at the single bed with its nautical-inspired bedspread.
There’s a bathroom to the side with the world’s smallest shower and toilet.
Guess I should be thankful that I don’t need to use a bucket to relieve myself.
It’s a step up in the kidnapping game this time.
There’s the tiniest of portholes above the bed.
I rush toward it hoping to catch a glimpse of something to work out where I am, but when I look through it, I realize the porthole is just above water level and can’t be opened.
I consider the thought that if it could open, I might hopefully be able to drown myself in the seawater.
I slump against the bed, which is surprisingly comfortable, and pull my legs up to my chest. My body shakes with the shock of my situation coupled with what could be the start of my withdrawal kicking in, and I sit there in a crumpled heap slowly losing my mind.
At some point I must have fallen asleep as I wake up disorientated and confused about where I am.
Then everything hits me like a kaleidoscope of images, and I jump up and rush to the bathroom to throw up.
I stay hunched there next to the toilet, still feeling green, the rocking of the boat not making the situation better as I throw up again.
Exhaustion must claim me again as I open my eyes and see I’m still wrapped around the toilet bowl.
I throw up again, my whole body shivering now, my skin clammy.
I need a pill, just one to take the edge off, help me think, and to feel better.
Frantically I search all my pockets for a pill, usually, I keep an emergency stash on me.
Why can’t I find it? Then I realize I had taken it out because I wanted to wear this dress to Zoe’s engagement party and there was no room in the tight dress to hide it.
I thought I could rush to my room whenever I needed my fix until I was snatched.
“Motherfuckers,” I scream.
I keep screaming as the anger and frustration inside me build over the entire situation.
Something snaps inside of me because I turn feral as I begin to destroy everything in the room.
I pick up the trashcan and smash it into the mirror sending shards of glass everywhere.
Seeing as nothing else is in the world’s smallest bathroom, I move on to the bedroom.
I tear the sheets from my bed and rip them apart until they are nothing but long strips of linen.
Next is the pillow as I tear it open and thousands of white feathers pour out of it like a blizzard as they float all around me.
My chest is heaving and every muscle in my body aches, but I continue my spiral as I spy the small TV on the wall, rip it from the wall, and smash it on the floor.
My anger then turns to the cabin’s door, and I kick and scream at it, but the lock holds under my frustration.
I destroy as much as I can until the room looks like one of those smash rooms where you go and get your anger out and smash things up.
This was my private version of one of those rooms. Moving onto the next stages of anger I collapse into a heap and sob.