Shaky thighs transport me to the mattress where I crawl on my hands and knees, curling up in the center of the bed. Tears sting, not because I’m upset, it’s more than that.
I’m ashamed. Utterly distraught.
What woman yields to her jailer, albeit a fleeting flash of temporary insanity? Now he’s aware of my reaction. It was there. He sensed it. I felt it.
I crave him.
I deplore him.
Huddled in isolation, I can only assume it’s a consequence of loneliness. A sick syndrome that smoothers a sound mind. The aftermath of a tropical fever.
I’m woken at dawn with a tap on the door, a baseball cap, and a uniform twice the size of the last one.
“Hurry and get changed.” Sal lets himself in and plonks down by the transparent patio door. Slashes of flamingo pink and flushed coral streak over navy blue, gently announcing another day in the afterlife. “It'll be light soon, and I have to escort our new guest to the medical suite after breakfast. Tomorrow you can make your own way to the staff cabana.”
My head falls back on the pillow. Despite having an enormous bed, the sheets are tangled around me in loops from wallowing in the aftermath of el Fantasma. The last thing I want to do is move from my linen hideaway. It's the one place where I’m alone. To think. To remember. To seek refuge. If I’m honest with myself, I could easily barricade the door and never leave, except that would be giving up.
I haven’t come this far in life, to only get this far. For all to end here.
El Fantasma will let me leave, someday. He said so himself. The golden carrot of “one day” hangs out of reach, dangling in plain sight.
Traipsing into the bathroom, I dip under the waterfall shower head, going through the motions. Vanilla essence lingers in my towel dried curls and a fruity cocktail moisturizer takes care of stiff shins. I’m careful not to irritate the mending gash on my cheek, aware of how ugly it must be. Dressing in men’s trousers and a boxy shirt, I’m thankful for the lack of mirrors.
I try to push away thoughts of Emmie, my parents, and Bruce’s accident. My brain naturally plays out visions of their inconsolable grief. As months pass by, their tears will dry and their sadness will mellow. The world will continue to rotate in a glorious galaxy, and normal day-to-day living will resume.
One day they will learn to smile again.
They will carry on.
I’m destined to become a faded memory. A woman they once knew. A character in a framed photograph. A lost soul. All but forgotten until a snapshot reminds them of a moment we shared. The cruel facts unfold under the same rising sun that shines on my family.
I gather twisted strands into a low bun and conceal them beneath the baseball cap. My belly twinges in apprehension, pleading for a day without el Fantasma. A ravenous rumble reminds me I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Not that I have much of an appetite.
Joining Sal, my attention lands on professionally tucked sheets and plumped up bolster cushions.
“Make your bed every morning. It sets the standard for the day ahead.” He fixes the last cushion with a perfecting karate chop.
“I’m used to shaking out a duvet and walking away.” I smile with limited effort.
“You’ll get used to it.” He ushers me to the door, stops and fastens the remaining buttons on my shirt, closing it around my throat. The gentle touch makes me shrink. “It’s better if you keep covered.”
“Better for who?”
“For you.” The corners of his eyes crease when his lips press to a firm line. “Tell me about Scotland.” He seamlessly switches the topic. “I’ve only ever lived in Manaus and here in the oasis.”
I sigh, missing the seaside whip of icy air and fishermen off-loading fresh sea trout from their trawlers. “It has an oceanic climate which makes it cold ninety percent of the time, with plenty of rainfall.”
Flickering lanterns guide us along the pathways, their yellow hue fading as darkness dissolves. I love how eco-friendly they are. However, I doubt they were an intentional touch by the egotistical creator of such a glorious trap.
Everything smells fresher in the earlier hours, while the sun prepares to burnish the opposite side of the world to my homeland.
“Why do you work here?”
“Why would I not? I get paid triple what most men my age earn.”
“What’s the point if you never hang out with your friends or look after your family?”
“I do see them.”
“How?”
“It’s all about trust. I work hard, follow through on my word, and my employer grants home leave.”
“He lets you out of the oasis?”
“He does.”
The first light of day spills tangerine columns on solar panels fixed to a rustic thatched roof shaped like a pyramid, nestled on top of a cabana sitting majestically on stilts. An amber wraparound deck boasts a panoramic view with twinkling lanterns.
Drifting indoors behind Sal, I gaze up at industrial steel beams and cultivated bamboo. Timber framed windows welcome shades of foliage from light to forest green. A natural reminder of the acres holding me hostage.
Workers occupy dining tables and relax in an informal lounge. A sugary coffee aroma carries through airy space. The buffet station flanking the far side offers an abundance of serving plates decorated with tropical fruits, nuts, and leaf-wrapped parcels.
Sal hands me a plate and winks. “Stretch or starve.”
Jovial conversations take place around us. These men aren’t here against their will. They happily sip hot drinks, filling up for a day of paid labor.
Paid. Whereas I owe a debt of gratitude. Pompous asshole. Isn’t it human nature to save a soul in distress without an expectation of reward or repayment? Sal is so blinded by money that he can’t see the devil in disguise.
I tug down the peak of my cap, thankful for the baggy uniform that helps me blend into the crowd. With so much food to choose from, I pick mashed avocado on sourdough, sprinkled in pepper. Sal pours two mugs of coffee and picks a table by the window.
It should be intimidating sitting amidst a throng of strapping men who work for the man holding me hostage. Yet, they don’t stare at me or point fingers or acknowledge my presence at all. It’s like I’ve become insignificant. Unseen.
“The guys seem content to be here.” It’s been weeks since I’ve savored a warm drink. The soothing liquid travels into my empty stomach.
“Yeah. They’re a hardworking bunch.” Sal wrinkles his nose. “The maintenance crew works the hardest.”
“And they enjoy working for a man like him?” The corner of my mouth drifts up.
“Of course they do.” He sighs, sinking his teeth into a plantain surprise. “If it helps, I understand why you’re angry,” he replies, covering his mouth as he chews. “I’d hate to be in your shoes. Away from my family. I get that. But you’re the one who came here. He didn’t snatch you from a crowd or lure you here under false pretenses. You crossed over the boundary. You stepped on his land and saw things you weren’t supposed to see.” He shrugs his shoulders as if that statement was perfectly rational and justifies my entrapment. “He could’ve left you for dead out there.”
“I was ill. Delirious,” I protest. “I didn’t notice any boundary lines along the river. What man owns the damn rainforest.” My fist slams down, rattling cutlery.