Chapter Thirty-Two
I’ll be the first to endorse the idea that holding grudges does very little for your mental state. That said, if you’re looking for something to drive you forward in furious determination, vengeance can be an extremely powerful motivator.
A notion not lost on most inhabitants of this island.
The Ivory is obviously a prime target for revenge. Especially if you consider him responsible for all the atrocities that have happened here, which most of us do.
Despite everything that’s happened in the last few months—more specifically in the last week—I don’t consider Manuel Blanco to be evil. Because, like I told Trevel, real evil doesn’t exist. It’s an excuse; something people use to justify the heinous behavior of others.
Being highly attuned to the human mind, I know the truth.
The Ivory is just a man, like so many others, who discovered the unprecedented high of power.
And now, like any functioning addict, everything he does is in service of getting his next fix.
Making sure he never comes down, because the reality he must face as Manuel Blanco is unbearable to even think about.
I won’t lie, I’ve been so focused on my own revenge lately, I hadn’t even considered Trevel’s coming to a head.
Don’t get me wrong, I knew he was pissed.
I’ve felt it in our every interaction since he arrived in Alabaster Penitentiary.
He was going to play as many games as he felt necessary to get himself some semblance of control back.
I guess I just didn’t think he would act on it in such a grandiose way.
That was my first mistake. Underestimating him; his fury and his ability to make vengeance his entire personality. I’ve known Trevel Fenwick a long time, and now I feel stupid for ever considering that he wouldn’t do something gratuitous like kidnapping me and my fiancé.
And my second, and probably bigger, mistake was not paying closer attention to Manuel Blanco.
I knew that if he found out I was talking to Velle after their falling out, he would see it as a betrayal. And I could have done a lot more to at least pretend I wanted to remain in his good graces. But I just… couldn’t.
I couldn’t bring myself to kiss his ass, and act like I wasn’t raging inside every time I thought about what he’d done. What he’d allowed to happen to Felix the moment I stepped away from this island.
I’ve never been one to bend the knee. Call it a stubborn streak; likely something that’s triggered by memories of my parents insisting that I keep my mouth shut and move on from the terrible things they wanted to pretend never happened.
Manuel’s insistence that I remain loyal to him, despite his putting that fuck Templeton in charge of Felix, knowing full-well that he was a disgusting, deplorable little man, rubbed me wrong. And it wasn’t going to happen.
I get on my knees for only one person. And he’s the only thing that matters to me anymore.
Felix is my reason for living. So long as he’s here, I’ll be here. If The Ivory wants to torture me for the rest of my life over that, then so be it.
Self-awareness isn’t always the best. Being a realist usually means a level of cynicism, and because I’ve never been one to delight in blissful ignorance, I knew from the moment Trevel took me and Felix hostage that Manuel Blanco would do his worst. To prove that he’s in charge, and he won’t settle for me shitting all over his rules for one more second.
In all honesty, he’s justified. I’m a reasonable person, and I realize that I’ve been doing whatever I want on this island since pretty much the moment I got here. I mean, even after he warned me to keep Felix in the prison, I still kept bringing him back to the mansion with me.
We’ve been untouchable for months, living in our bubble of blissful new relationship delusions. But I’m not delusional—not really. I knew the other shoe would drop eventually. You can only poke the beast for so long before it chomps your goddamn arm off.
I was just hoping that when all of this blatantly overconfident behavior came back to bite me, I’d have the comfort of knowing Velle’s plan would work.
But now, I’ve been chained in the basement for a week, having the limits of my tolerance for anguish tested. I have no idea what’s going on outside of here. I don’t know where the love of my life is, or if he’s okay…
All I can do is endure it, like he did. Because if there’s even the slightest chance that he can, I know he’ll come for me.
I’ve experienced limitless doubt since I came to Alabaster Isle. But the one thing I understand with full certainty is that the depths of Felix Darcey’s depravity know no bounds, and his obsessive love is even fiercer.
If it takes him years, he will be back for me.
Not being able to smash these motherfuckers in the face is a much worse punishment than the waterboarding, starvation, and hot pokers they’ve been using on me. Because every moment I’m near them, all I can think about is what my man went through because of them.
Johansson attempted to talk to me, shortly after I was collared and brought down to the tombs. Before the torture started, when I was just a prisoner, being forced to help them treat victims of the war that’s been raging outside since the prison fell.
“I hope you know… I had nothing to do with what Dr. Templeton…” His voice wavered, likely when he saw how thoroughly I was glaring at him. “His actions were his own. I can’t speak to Dr. Hassan’s involvement…”
My teeth were practically crumbling to little pebbles of enamel in my mouth.
“We are researchers of the mind. I know you don’t see it, Doctor, but I assure you, I wouldn’t have signed off on that type of—”
“Sexual assault?” I growled, damningly quiet.
His eyes widened, and he swallowed visibly. It almost made me laugh.
There’s nothing more annoying than a monster who tries to act like he isn’t one.
Stepping up to him, I got as close as I could before he started backing up. “You better chain me up, Jarvis,” I hissed. “Because I’m smarter than you. And that means I will not stop until you pay for what you allowed to happen to my patient.”
The sounds of footsteps bring me out of my wrathful reminiscence. Sure enough, it’s the assholes in question. Johansson and Hassan hustle into the room like they’re in a hurry.
Great. Let’s get this show on the road, I guess.
They shackle my neck, wrists and ankles, chains attached to the wall. I’m exhausted already, too tired to even hold myself up. But the feelings are coming on… The memories.
Only this time, it’s metal, not rope. I can’t burn my flesh to get out of it.
Fuck…
Struggling to breathe without gasping, because I don’t want them to know they’re getting to me, I glare at Johansson while he hooks up his makeshift electroshock machine to the metal around my neck. And then he slips a bag over my head.
Fuckin pussy. Cover my face so you don’t have to look me in the eye while you do this, you goddamn cowards.
They begin with electric shocks, and the hot poker in tandem, and I disassociate as much as I can. That is, until Hassan starts fucking talking.
“Where’s your pretty, monster boyfriend, Lemuel? If only he could save you like you saved him… From Templeton. And me.”
My blood is on fire, and every word from his mouth is another splash of gasoline.
Hassan is still talking shit, and I hear Johansson mumble a number. Based on what’s happening, it’s either voltage, or the temperature of that goddamn metal poker. Who knows, but I’m more enraged by having to listen to this prick than any harm they could bring to my body.
If it were at all physically possible for a human being to break free from steel chains, I’d be doing it right now.
I actually visualize myself yanking an arm forward so hard they rip right out of the wall.
Honestly, if I weren’t so weak right now, I think I probably could.
But I’ve barely eaten in weeks, I’ve been sleeping on the floor—when I actually can sleep, that is.
The shivers make it hard to get any rest, unless it’s simply passing out from exhaustion.
I’m as weak as one could be, meaning it’s not the best time for me to be fantasizing about summoning my Lou Ferrigno strength.
In fact, I’m coming in and out of consciousness so much that when the bag is ripped off of my head, and I see Trevel standing there, I think I’m hallucinating.
But then I notice how much less severe he looks than any time I’ve seen him until now. There’s an expression on his face resembling my patient again; the one I used to treat in Riverwoods, then at my practice.
It reminds me of the first time I met him. How his eyes plead with me to understand him. For anyone to be on his side and see his brokenness for what it was…
Not a terminal disease, but rather a part of him. Just a part, like any other.
Trevel murmurs something while I’m remembering all this, and I blink him into focus.
“Now we’re even,” he whispers.
I barely have time to wonder what he means by that.
He whirls around, jamming the metal poker into Hassan’s neck.
My mouth actually drops open, like maybe I was going to say, “Oh, damn,” or something to that effect, but I don’t have the strength to cough up words.
Still, my eyes are wide, watching in fascination as he tackles Johansson, using the chain around my ankles to wrap it around his neck and pull. The distinct crunch of him snapping Johansson’s neck sends a chill up my spine.
Holy… fuck.
Vengeance comes in many forms. But we know the physical acts of seeking revenge doesn’t quell the hurt like we think it will. More than anything, it’s something to keep us going. Something to hold our heads up when it would otherwise be so easy to give up.
What we really need is to find the strength to move on. That, and only that, will lead us to acceptance, to closure, and some semblance of peace.
I can see now that this is what Trevel has found in Byron. The strength of another to help him.