Five
Ara
“There is no part in this world where you can hide forever, doll. If you escape, I will find you. I will drag you back here, break your legs and then claim your soul like all others.”
A whimper breaks free from my lips at his words. Bapo is a scary man, but the man standing behind him terrifies me more. I’ve always known him as Papa’s closest business partner. And now I see his true side. The crueller, darker and unhinged side. The man doesn’t care that I’m terrified, he doesn’t care that I’m being tortured, given pain that I’ve never even known or deserved. The only thing he cares about is that I remain unsullied. Or, more precisely, one part of me remains untouched.
Where Bapo doesn’t dare touch me under his master’s presence, his master has no such qualms. The lunatic drops on his haunches in front of me, his dull brown eyes shining with an interest that I’ve always found disturbing. I shoved it away as nothing. I should’ve trusted my instincts. It could’ve saved my family. It could’ve saved me from this fate. It would have saved Papa.
I recoil when Vir’s hand stretches forward. My movement doesn’t deter his actions as he pulls out a leaf from my hair. His spicy cologne fills my nostrils, coupled with the stench that comes from my cell and the corpse that they dropped near my feet, it gets tough to hold in the contents in my stomach. Bile rises in my throat and I puke on the side, my whole body shivering in revulsion.
“I’ve known you to be a clever one, dear. Don’t disappoint me.” Vir caresses my hair gently.
The seemingly deceptive gesture lasts as long as I heave; until there is nothing but saliva that drips down my chin.
Vir produces his handkerchief, gently rubbing my mouth. I don’t know what I’m doing here, and I don’t know what compelled me to explore the jungle in search of Papa’s death, but the moment I stumbled into their grounds, they robbed my life.
They have plans for me. Plans which include pain, torture and depravity that no human should be capable of. And I’m helpless against them. Helpless against the army of men who guard this place.
Even if I do manage to run away from them, where do I go? Who would believe a girl like me who looks crazy at best? Bapo also said that they have, my sister, under their radar. He said as long as I behave, she stays safe. She stays untouched.
“Get her cleaned,” Vir stands up, giving us his back.
He exits the underground dungeon, leaving me alone with another kind of monster. If not for the crazy things Vir believes and connects to me, I’m sure Bapo would’ve chowed me raw by now.
“Let’s get you cleaned, kid,”
I scream when Bapo rips my dress that holds the last threads of modesty. He doesn’t wait for me to stand, he doesn’t let my screams affect him. They spur him on, my tears bringing out a deranged smile on his wicked face as he drags me by my hair.
I try to gain a holding by my feet, but other than scrapes from the uneven ground, I have nothing to hold onto. The blinding pain from his grip has me wailing in pain, trying to scratch his hands that hold my hair. He laughs at my fight, his grip turning punishing as he drags me to another phase of this hellhole.
Nightmares aren’t unusual in my life. I’ve been living with them ever since I escaped, changed mine and Iyra’s identities. I live with the knowledge that I’m on borrowed time. If not for the upheaval I stirred, I need to pay for the lives I took.
The lives of innocents whose eyes still haunt me. I try to tell myself that I’m no longer that person, but I know it’s a lie. I am that person. A murderer. A woman who doesn’t deserve to live, but I do. I’m selfish that way.
I want to keep the promise I made Ma. I’ve already failed half of the promise I made Papa, but I cannot fail my mother.
And if I’m allowed, I would like to see Iyra happy. I would like to see her with a man who loves her like she deserves and, see her with kids that she has always wanted. I want to see her build a family. I want to see her happy. And maybe then, I can revisit the idea of letting my demons consume me.
“That woman’s poker face is immovable,”
Ivy’s voice breaks my thoughts as she takes a seat opposite me, happily grabbing the iced tea I’ve ordered for her. I smile at my pretty friend, who looks insanely beautiful clad in a form-fitting beige dress that hugs her slim figure just right. She left her strawberry blonde hair loose, framing her face in a way that accentuated her sharp features. Her pale blue eyes shift to me and she raises a delicate brow my way.
“Something happened,” she notices.
I don’t bother putting up a pretence with her. She knows me better than anyone— next to Iyra— and she is all that I have here. We have bonded since we were in college, and both of our past stories have connected us more deeply than any normal friendship. We have peeked into each other closets, and seen the skeletons that we’ve buried there and we are still here.
“Nightmares,” I sigh, gently rubbing my palms on my eyes.
“I think it is time you reconsider the therapist idea,” Ivy suggests, her face filled with concern.
“And tell them what exactly?” I lean back in my chair.
“You know you don’t have to tell them the whole story right?” she rolls her eyes at me, knowing I won’t do it.
“I don’t see a point wasting my time and money if I don’t get into the full details of the trauma. And I cannot do that because any therapist would either admit me into an asylum or go running for the hills.” I conclude, opening my sandwich.
“How did the interview go?” I divert the topic.
Ivy notices but doesn’t comment on it.
“Well, I thought it went well. But it could’ve also gone to shit. I couldn’t say with the way nothing changed in her expression.”
I laugh lightly at that, knowing that she would be selected. Dr. Mariam cannot find a better replacement after she retires in two years or a better TA than Ivy.
I bite into my sandwich, keeping my eyes on her face as I ask her my next question.
“I still do not know why you quit being a reporter.”
She was offered the position of an assistant professor at the same time as me in investigative journalism, which she turned down because her passion was different.
Which seems to have changed in a week. A week of her eyes always glazed over in fear. A week of unruly thoughts keeping her awake, giving her nightmares she couldn’t talk about. Ivy’s eyes harden as she stares down at her half-empty glass, contemplating.
“I’m brave, but not a fool. That night changed everything, Ara. It gave me a fear that outweighs my thirst for the world’s secrets.”
I nod, understanding what she means. No one remains the same after seeing what we did. It tilts one’s world upside down. After being given clear proof that we exist with men who kill as easily as we discard clothes, it isn’t easy to digest the fact that we have met and left unscathed from the clutches of grim reapers.
“You’ll get the job.” I pat her hand reassuringly with a smile.
“Hope so,” she crosses her fingers as I look at my watch.
“It’s time for my class.” I sigh and gather my things.
Ivy waves me bye as I grab my coat and sandwich. I walk out of the university cafe, with my things in my hand. Just outside the door, I start to push one of my hands into the coat when I feel it. The unmistakable prickle of someone’s attention at the back of my neck. This has been the case all week. The incessant prick of someone’s stare on me while I’m at the University. Am I imagining it?
I hurriedly make my way to the East Wing, trying to ignore the gooseflesh that pops up all over my body. I step inside my classroom, trying to mask my apprehension by taking a bite of my sandwich.
Maybe it is the hyper-aware senses that I have developed ever since my escape. The moment I step into the room, I smell the unmistakable scent of Oud, leather, and richness of cigars. I’m not usually a fan of tobacco, but the woodsy notes that linger around mix well with the Oud, concocting an alluring combination that halts me in my steps for half a second before I continue to walk.
I try my best not to look at the back of my class. The area where no one sits and no one cares to turn on the lights. The seats which might have a dangerous man sitting on them, grilling the side of my face with his sizzling attention which has my hands shaking slightly. I try my darnedest not to turn but fail. I end up looking at the farthest seats, trying to find any shift in the shadows.
A man that large should be easy to spot. A man with an aura like him shouldn’t be able to mask himself this easily. It is a wonder how anyone other than me does not feel his presence in this room.
My eyes catch a slight shift in the shadows. A barely there movement, but a movement nonetheless. I know it is deliberate because this is the only time he has even cared enough to move or do it in a manner that is visible to me. I know that if he wants to, he can stay hidden as long as he wants to.
I turn away, fear crawling into my veins at the confirmation of his presence. If he was here, what was it I felt before? I shake my head, ridding myself of my paranoia.
I resist the urge to look into the shadows. I have no idea what he wants from me. I do not have a clue about why he is here, in almost all my classes, sitting in the shadows and observing. What does he wish to see? Whether or not I’d snitch? Is it not evident that I’m not a fool?
Ivy and I hadn’t even made a peep about the nightmarish incident and had done our best to remove ourselves from any situation that might lead to questions. Ivy has bloody quit her job when her boss started asking too many questions and I barely make it out of bed every morning, fearing that today might be the day they decide to kill us.
I turn to Ray—my TA—who stands ready with the papers for today’s quiz. I nod at her and she hands over the papers to my students, instructing them to pass them to the ones behind. I flop into my chair, biting into the bread that is tasteless now. I just need to do something with these shaky hands.
“You have an hour,” I murmur, not sure if my voice reaches them all.
Ray throws a wary glance at me, but other than that says nothing. She does her job invigilating while I open a book of my own. The words barely register, but I force myself to concentrate.
I will not let him affect my life more than he already is. He needs to understand that I am not a fool who would snitch about the man this dangerous.
Perhaps he is angry about his wound?
Dread turns my stomach upside down at the sudden thought. Looking back on that night, the man didn’t seem particularly bothered by it. Other than the threat of death to make me say his name, the man didn’t even wince after I fired the gun. I don’t think I saw his face move when he was digging into his flesh for the bullet. How could that be even possible? I cry when I stub my toe.
Thinking back, what he did seems unsanitary. God knows where his hand has been. He is prone to ungodly infections by touching an open wound without proper sterilisation. It is on him if the doctor has to remove his hand because of a nasty infection and not on me. I hope he knows that.
Why is he hanging around in a college when he must have other important things to do? Is he perhaps interested in studying? Then why not enrol himself here? I’m sure that he doesn’t have to go through the same procedures and scrutiny the students have to go through. Heck, I’m sure that Dean Fowler would have professors sent to his house if he ordered so.
My brain is muddled with questions that have no answers. I finally give up on studying and lean back in my chair, closing my eyes.
They sting and burn. I fish out my eye drops to relieve the itch from my dry eyes. I’m pretty sure that they are bloodshot. I have hardly been having three hours of sleep for four days. Maybe I should start taking the pills again. I tip my head back for a few minutes to let the drops work, thankful that it turns down the sting and itchiness.
Is it possible for your skin to warm when under scrutiny? I don’t know about others, but when being stared at by a devil, my skin warms up immediately. I can feel the intensity of perusal all the way here. I feel my skin heating up and my heart beating faster than normal. I cannot open my eyes to look, but I know that he is there, looking at me like a predator does with its prey. Gauging its weakness, looking for the weaker spots while deciding on whether to pounce or chase.
I wonder what he is looking for.
I wonder what he sees.
Does he think I’m attractive? A man like him must have had his fill of stunning, confident women—women who know their way in bed, without shadows as dark as mine. Women without stomach rolls or extra weight. It used to sting, back when I was younger, but not anymore. As long as I can run, I don’t care
As long as I can escape any tricky situation, I don’t care about my size. I’ve long since given up on the idea of dating, and I don’t obsess over my size anymore. But I do enjoy feeling put-together—looking pretty gives me the confidence to face this world head-on.
I suppose it is natural to wonder. Especially when you encounter a man like Devlin. A man who oozes out masculinity from his every pore, a man who looks formidable. I suppose any woman would want to look at herself from his lenses.
I try to recall what I wore this morning. I’m too lazy for make-up and like to gather my thick mane up in a messy bun with my extra-long pencil. But I do remember that I chose a pretty outfit today. A sleeveless black turtle neck that I tucked into checkered high-waisted beige pants. I feel the chunky belt I added and black heels to finish the look.
I smile slightly, commending my fashion sense. I don’t know about other scholars, but I love splurging on my outfits. I love feeling pretty.
I open my eyes, looking at the ceiling frowning at the way my thoughts are being driven towards.
Why do I care to know if he finds me attractive? Why do I need to seek validation from a man? Let alone a dangerous one like him? Instead of staying as far as possible from him, why am I wondering about things like this?
Resisting the urge to smack myself upside down, I sit straight. This time, when I concentrate on the chapter about neoplasms, my mind works better in trying to process the words. I don’t feel like an illiterate now.
It only works briefly before another useless question pops up in my head when I am about to take another bite at my sandwich.
He was in all my classes today. I had to shift around a few of them to keep up with my syllabus plan and have hardly had any time for myself. Two of my post-grad classes ran for three hours nonstop and I have given myself only a fifteen-minute break to grab a sandwich and meet Ivy before I rushed to this class.
For him to follow me, be here before the students and conceal himself well in the darkness, he must have come right after my last class. That doesn’t leave him with any time to eat.
Why do you care if your stalker ate or not you bloody lunatic? A voice in my head hisses .
Right! Why the heck do I care if that man ate or not? He is terrorising me in all my classes, making me stumble during my lectures and also the reason I started to squirm in my seat. He sits in my classes where he isn’t allowed, making me uncomfortable without any thought, and I care whether or not he ate?
There must be a screw that’s gone loose up in my head.
The hour slips by unnoticed, and the students begin to file out, dropping their answer sheets on my desk. Yet, I can’t shake the thought of whether he ate. It gnaws at me—how ridiculous, how utterly unnecessary—but still, the thought refuses to leave.
With a frustrated hiss, I rummage through my purse, digging for something to scribble on. A bill from some random purchase. Perfect. I scribble down a few words and slap the paper on top of my sandwich.
I barely touched it, anyway. Not that it should matter. I grab the papers to grade, leave the sandwich on my desk, and walk out with the students.
I hope he likes chicken. If not, tough luck. This is the extent of my hospitality, and it’s as generous as I’m willing to get.