Beauty in the Broken

I have an idea, but I say nothing as we stare at each other. Refusing to avert my gaze from the hatred that burns in his green eyes, I take a good, long look. I let the emotion settle in and lock it away in my heart where I keep stock of my enemies.

Lips curling, he pushes my head into the pillow. “Try to get some sleep.”

When he moves away, hysteria sets in. I’m trapped. I can’t breathe. “Unlock me.”

He keeps on walking, not sparing me a glance.

“Please, don’t lock me in. Don’t close the door.” I’m blabbering, but I can’t stop. “Don’t lock me in. Please.”

At the door, his patience snaps. Before I can blink, he’s back at the bed, his backhand connecting so hard with my cheek my ears ring.

“Shut the fuck up, you crazy bitch.”

“You don’t understand.” I can’t breathe if I’m constrained.

“I said quiet,” he yells. “It’s bad enough I’m saddled with being your babysitter. I don’t want to listen to your wailing all night.” Mumbling lunatic under his breath, he marches back to the door.

I buck and yank on my constraints, saying please and promising to be good, but my pleas fall on deaf ears. The door shuts with a bang.

“It’s fine,” I whisper. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

I’m not.

Panic gets the better of me. I start to struggle in all earnest, jerking and pulling on the metal around my wrist like a mad person. It feels as if I’m drowning. I can’t breathe. Shit, I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe! Twisting and kicking at the sheets trapping my feet only makes it worse. I can’t think. It’s mind over matter, but I’m not a cognizant human being. I’m an animal, trapped and pushed into a corner. I behave like an animal, the sounds coming from my throat scaring even me. I’m vaguely aware of the burning of my skin where I’m fighting the cuffs like a feral cat. My tears and silent wails degrade me further, lower than an animal and closer to a pathetic, wild creature at the most basic form of existence, fighting for every breath.

Breathe. Breathe.

I can’t give in to this. I can’t.

With enormous effort, I still. It takes inhumane willpower to calm myself enough to drag in air. When I finally manage, I choke on oxygen. I cough and choke, and choke and cry. It’s no big deal. It’s just a panic attack. I’m breathing. It’s going to be all right. The door is just closed. It’s not locked.

I repeat the mantra until I’m calm enough to breathe normally, and it doesn’t feel like my lungs are collapsing. I’m not fighting, any longer, but I’m far from relaxed. Every muscle in my body is taut. Every conscious moment is a battle to hold onto the calm and not slip back into panic mode. I need to distract my mind. I mustn’t think about the fact that I can’t get up and move freely. I grasp for straws, sifting through my brain for a buoy that will keep me afloat, and the first thing that drifts within reach is hope. The thought I grab onto is the one thing I’m set on finding. It’s the evidence Damian holds over my head, the scraps of paper that threaten Harold’s life and affect mine in ways no one can understand. It’s where in this house he keeps it, and how quickly I’ll find it.

Damian

The chartered Cessna lands on an airstrip outside the heavily secured area south of Sanddrift in the Richtersveld, a stone-throw from the Namibian border. It was only a three hour-long flight, but the minute I step off the plane, I power up my phone and look for an update from Zane. His text message says Lina is in bed and all is well.

All is well.

Nothing can be further from the truth. All hasn’t been well since the day I set foot in her father’s house. It will only be well again when I see the look on his face as he realizes I’ve put him out of business.

Shielding my eyes against a dust storm, I send a quick reply to Zane, telling him to keep me updated, and shake the hand of the nervous Dalton Diamond Corporation mining representative waiting next to a car. My reputation exceeds me, no doubt, but that very reputation prevented the Senior Operations Manager, Fouché Ellis, from declining my request. I may also have hinted at wanting to make a big investment. It’s an unorthodox visit Dalton is unaware of, but one he’ll learn about soon enough.

“Welcome, Mr. Hart. I’m here to drive you to your accommodation.”

“I know why you’re here,” I say, buttoning up my jacket.

The evenings in the semi-desert are cool. The familiarity of something as simple as a weather pattern strikes a chord of homecoming in me, as well as the perverse thrill a hunter feels when his prey is within grabbing distance.