Chapter Thirty-Seven
Rotten.
Rotting…
Dead.
Dying…
Let it be said that I recognize my faults, okay? I know I’ve FUBAR-ed many aspects of this mission, from my failure at Club Edge, to getting swept up in investigating this island, allowing this world that The Ivory has created to hypnotize me, when I should have just been fucking killing him.
But instead, here I am. Locked in a hole, withering away.
I don’t know how long I’ve actually been in here; it feels like years. In reality, it’s probably only been a few weeks. I lost count after a while because I’ve been fading more and more as time goes on. At this point, I’m almost positive this is where I’m going to die.
I will give up my last breath in this concrete tomb. My flesh will rot in my own personal mausoleum of consumed existence. Just like the others.
This is what he wanted, I’m sure. To capture me and lock me away in a stone box no bigger than a broom closet.
No windows, no light, other than what shines through the half-inch of space between the door and the floor.
Not even one of those little plexiglass squares to peek through.
Just a rusty metal door keeping me fully secluded.
A couple of buckets to relieve myself in, though let’s be real, after a while, there’s really no need.
I’m barely eating or drinking anything to expel, anyway.
That was the part I lost sight of… again. That despite his words of manipulation, El Diablo is pure evil. The lies of a silver-tongued serpent mean nothing when his intentions were always for me to die slowly of starvation and dehydration and humiliation in this fucking shithole prison.
Soy idiota.
At first, I pounded on the door like a simpleton. I couldn’t stop remembering what I’d overheard that day in the library…
“Come hell or high water… mi pajarito volverá a mí. He will come back to me.”
Some diluted part of my brain still thought that he wanted to get me back to him. So that we could have one last showdown, wherein he would try to capture me again, and I would slice him open.
As it turns out, he was saying it all along, I just wasn’t listening.
He knew he would get me back, and he did.
And now he’s letting me die.
The only reason my body is still alive is because, despite the potential repercussions, people are looking out for me. That might be the most confusing part of all this.
Someone has been bringing me food, water, basic toiletries. There’s a slot at the bottom of the door that’ll slide open every few days, and when it does, someone slides in stuff.
Stuff I know for a fact isn’t coming from The Ivory, or his evil robot army.
The first bottle of water and granola bar came with a hushed, “I’m sorry…” Before they scurried away.
The voice sounded male, young. Too soft to be any of the guards. At first I thought maybe it was Yari. But I feel like I’d recognize his voice.
Shame I’ll never know who it is, since I’m going to die. Whether I inevitably starve, or I take matters into my own hands, I can’t take much more of this.
Running my thumb over the handle of my knife, I whisper, “Lo siento, Papa… te fallé.”
I’m so sorry I failed you and Mama.
Trudging footsteps indicative of the other person who’s been stopping by to keep me fed pull me out of my emotional hole.
They pause for a moment, as they always do, before sliding the metal slot aside and thrusting in a tray.
Two bottles of water, a new washcloth, and a container of food that was probably warm like two hours ago.
Still, I can’t be ungrateful. I’ve been serenaded by the sounds of my stomach eating itself for at least a full day.
“Thanks,” I mutter, accepting the stuff, going straight for the food, tearing into the container like an animal.
“Chin up, okay?” Velle hums. I can see the shadow of his combat boots. “We’re in the home stretch.”
“Why can’t you just let me out of here??” I whine, voice so weakened, it’s like a wisp crawling from within my throat. I barely have the energy to speak.
“Working on it,” he grumbles.
Then he stalks away.
It’s just… confusing. Who does he think I am?
Why can’t he just open the damn door and let me out?
That officer is involved, I’m sure of it. The asshole who grabbed me, Officer Zaza. The Ivory must have had his guards replace the control room operators as well, including whoever had been watching out for me.
Long story short, I’m screwed.
Finishing my food, I clean up with the washcloth and some wet wipes I have leftover. Not even close to the same as showering, and lo juro por Dios, if I do ever get out of here, the first thing I’m gonna do is find somewhere to wash myself. Stuff some food in my face.
Then kill The Ivory.
Lying down on the cold, hard floor, I flip my knife over and over in my hand, cringing when the screaming starts. The aggrieved bellows of inmates being tortured in the East, reminding me that it could be worse. Maybe… Not?
I think I’d take the torture to starving to death in complete darkness.
I’m pretty sure it’s Ren. I’ve heard Velle, Rook and Joy talking about him. I think he’s nearby.
More footsteps approach, and I crawl closer to the door, peering underneath to watch. Someone is wandering around. Definitely not a guard. From the ratty sneakers and dull gray jumpsuit pants around their ankles, it appears to be an inmate.
When I notice that they’re sort of lingering, I ask, “Is he okay?” Just to see what they do.
Even from the feet, I can tell they’re looking around the hall, unsure of where the voice is coming from. I smile, and it feels really good.
“Does it matter?” He responds. British guy… “No one is okay in here…”
The newest inmate… Trevel Fenwick. I think that’s him.
“Fair point,” I mumble.
He’s quiet for a moment, stepping closer, until his shoes are right in font of me. “Leo?”
My brows knit. “Sorry, no.”
I stare at his feet, wondering how the hell he’s just traipsing around on his own. Then I remember The Ivory talking that day, about how Trevel was helping him with something relating to Dr. Love.
“Are you… a friend of The Ivory?” I ask, curious.
He leans against my door. “It would appear so, wouldn’t it?”
I sit up. “You’ve put your trust in him?”
I certainly hope not. People have died tragic deaths for such naivety.
“I wouldn’t go that far…” he replies, and I huff.
“So you get it, then. That in order to be on his side, you have to accept that you’ll never come first.” I’m talking to Velle more than anything with this dollop of wisdom. “Your wants, needs… They’ll all take a backseat to his. Because he is all of it.”
Okay, maybe now I’m talking to myself.
“You sound like you know this from personal experience…” He calls me out.
I lift the knife again, eyes set on the bird in barbed wire. “In a way.”
He taps on the door. “Why are you in there?”
Porque estoy muy estupido.
Sighing, I tell him, “Revenge.”
To my surprise, he says, “It’s… important.” But then he adds, “Right?”
“Yes,” I agree vehemently. “It is.”
He releases an audible breath, as if he’s relieved that I’m validating his thoughts.
As if maybe he too has been seeking revenge, letting it consume him, as it does, and regularly debating if it’s even fucking worth it.
“I heard once that the best revenge is living a healthy, happy life,” I ramble, recalling my conversation with Leah two years ago.
When I was basically falling apart, using every vice in the world to distract myself from the rage inside me.
“Angel, you’re killing yourself. So you tried, and it didn’t work. It’s time to move on. There’s no defeating the devil.”
My blood came alive with that one word.
“Fuck that. I’m fine. And one day, he’ll get what’s coming to him…”
“They say the best revenge is living a healthy, happy life…”
“What the hell does that mean?” Trevel grumbles, more or less the same words I said to Leah when she said that to me.
It draws a chuckle out of me. “I guess it’s like rising above, or something.” I repeat Leah’s response, “The best revenge is not needing it, you know?”
He goes quiet, like he’s thinking this over. “I suppose… But getting it just feels so bloody good.”
I snort. “You’re funny, bad guy. I hope you get your revenge.”
And maybe, by some twist of fate, I’ll finally get mine.
Something clicks, as if he’s trying to open the door. Of course it doesn’t work, and my stomach falls in foolish optimism.
“You too, stranger,” he whispers. “Stay safe.”
He’s darting away while I’m sighing, “Lo siento… para mi falla.”
I’m sorry I didn’t kill him when I had the chance…
Everything he does from here on out is my fault.
It’s storming out.
A big one. Dare I say, bigger than the last, when we lost power in the mansion, and everyone was fucking by candlelight.
I wonder if anyone’s fucking anymore, what with the lockdown…
I’m sure they’re finding a way.
I’m sure El Diablo is fucking everyone. Their bodies, their minds… Their lives.
I redirect my thoughts before I start thinking about The Ivory’s sex life, focusing on the billowing winds you can hear through the walls. The little pieces of stone scattering after a particularly raucous boom of thunder.
Maybe this building will fall down. That might be the only way I get out of here.
That conversation the other day with the British stranger hasn’t left my brain since it happened.
Revenge. I still want it.
The thing is, I’ve never known how to live a healthy, happy life, like Leah said.
My life has been all grief, fury, anguish, addiction; a lost soul, living in self-destruction because I don’t know any other way.
I had the chance to move on with my life, but I couldn’t.
Just like a couldn’t fucking kill him when I needed to.
And so I vow, here in this dungeon, that if I don’t die… I will finish what I started. I don’t care if it kills me in the process.