When the Fairytale Ends (24 page)

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Authors: Dwan Abrams

BOOK: When the Fairytale Ends
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Twenty
When Shania awoke, she heard God himself whisper for her not to move and not to open her eyes. So she did exactly what He said. She kept still and she didn't open her eyes. Yet and still, the back of her head throbbed something awful, and if she didn't know any better, she'd have thought someone took out her heart and sewed it into her skull. Three thoughts ran simultaneously through her mind: What had happened? Where was she? And where was Greg?
As far as the first question went, all she could remember was heading toward her hotel and then hearing some man call her name. She knew she had been hit with something, but what, she had no idea. As far as where she was, she thought about peeking her eyes open to see what she could see, but reasoned against doing so. If God had told her to keep her eyes closed, then by golly, she would keep her eyes closed.
First, she focused on what she could feel. There was something hard and coarse digging into her wrists, which were tied in front of her. That same coarse feeling was around her ankles. That alone made her aware that she was someone's prisoner, and the thought sent her heart into overdrive. Tendrils of fear slid in and out of her pores, and she had to grit her teeth to keep from trembling.
Then she focused on what she could hear. There were footsteps close by, back and forth. There must have been a wooden floor. A door was somewhere, opening and closing. The sound of waves lapping at the sea. So she knew she was somewhere close to the ocean.
Next she focused on what she could smell. Careful not to allow her nostrils to flare too much, she sniffed the air. There was incense, the faint tinge of cigarette smoke and sandalwood.
And then a voice. A male voice. Not the male voice that had called her name earlier, but a different male voice. It sounded younger, softer. Not quite a boy's voice, but not quite a full-grown man's, either.
“Ya awake?”
His voice was close to her ear, but not so close as to make her uncomfortable. She could smell cigarette smoke and a trace of alcohol on his breath. She wondered why she was his prisoner and what was he going to do to her—or what had he already done?
“Ya awake?” he asked again in his thick Jamaican accent. Then she felt his hand on her ankle, shaking her lightly. She almost recoiled from his touch, but because she was still supposed to be “asleep,” she remained as still as possible and willed herself not to tense up.
The sound of hinges squeaking and then heavy footsteps stomped across the floor. Along with the new individual in the room came a horrible stench that nearly turned her stomach. It smelled like a pot of roasted onions that were left out in the sun for a few days and had spoiled and started to rot. Finally, there was a voice to go along with the horrible smell and heavy footsteps.
“She still not awake?” His voice was much thicker and heavily accented than the younger man's. And furthermore, whenever he talked, it sounded like he had a huge loogie stuck somewhere in his throat and he needed to hawk it out.
As soon as he opened his mouth, Shania immediately recognized the voice and knew that this was the man who had hit her even before the younger guy said, “I t'ink ya hit her too hard, mon. Now what we gon' do? Crazy Lady said not ta kill her.”
Crazy Lady?
Shania almost frowned, then remembered that she was supposed to be asleep, so she forced her face to remain relaxed.
But when she felt two greasy fingers press against the side of her neck and smelled that up close and personal whiff of this man's funk, her stomach threatened an upheaval, and it took nothing less than the strength and mercy of God to keep her from upchucking on this man.
“No, she not dead yet,” he said, “but dat a mean bump on da back of her head.”
The younger guy said, “Is Crazy Lady finished wit da man yet?”
“No,” he said, and she heard his footsteps carry him and his odor further away from the bed. She sent a silent thanks up to God. “No, she not finish yet. He still alive.”
Shania listened attentively to their words, figuring that “he” must be Greg. Instantly, she regretted treating him as harsh as she had and wished that she could rewind time back to that moment at the seashore when she had left him standing there. In this moment, she realized that all the arguments they'd had up to now seemed so trivial in the face of grave danger. All the silent treatment and cold shoulders she'd given her husband were lost moments, lost time that she could never make up.
It truly pained her to even think that her husband's last memory of her could be watching her storm down the shore, and her last memory of him could be his utter exasperation with her sour attitude.
Shania hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until the man had spoken those last words. She cracked her lips and inhaled as deep as she could without being conspicuous, and willed the tears of pure relief to remain in her eyes. As long as her husband was still alive, there was hope.
“But da Crazy Lady needs ta hurry up 'cause me got t'ings to do,” the stinky man said and let out a grunt.
“She gon' pay us da rest tonight, yes?”
The stinky man grunted and Shania assumed that meant yes. The two men were quiet and Shania found herself wondering, where was she, where was Greg, and who in God's name was the Crazy Lady? If she could figure out some answers to these questions, she was sure that she could start piecing a way out of this mess.
The stench of the stinky man had her stomach doing flip-flops, and she could count on her fingers how long she'd be able to hold it in before she emptied the contents of her stomach on the floor.
The stinky man said, “I will go check wit' Crazy Lady again. Keep an eye on her.”
His footsteps moved across the room. She heard the hinges creak as the door opened. As soon as she heard the door slam closed, Shania leaned over the side of the bed and retched until the only thing left in her stomach to throw up was bile and hydrochloric acid. So she threw that up too.
There was no way that she could throw up and still pretend like she was asleep, so the young man ran to her bedside. She opened her eyes and stared at him. He was not a bad-looking individual. He had to be about Jonathan's age and actually favored him a bit. The only difference was that he was as black as a midnight sky and had teeth as white as the sand on the Jamaican shore. Plus, he was much, much taller than Jonathan. There was a softness to his brown eyes that fanned Shania's flame of hope.
“Ya okay?” he asked and seemed genuinely concerned.
Shania shook her head and asked for a sip of water. When he left to get the water, she took this moment to take in her surroundings. She still had no idea where she was at, but it seemed like she was in some little hut with a wooden floor and a thatched roof. This must've been someone's house, but whose house, she had no idea.
When the young boy returned, she was glad to see him palming a bottled water instead of a cup of water. The last thing she wanted to do was risk her or her child's health by drinking a foreign country's unclean water.
She gladly accepted the bottled water and tried to wash the disgusting taste out of her mouth by downing the entire bottle. While she drank, she noticed that the young guy was watching her with a look of awe. She finished the bottle, and he gladly took it from her and trashed it. Then he sat at the end of the makeshift bed and stared at her.
“Ya beautiful asleep, but ya even more beautiful awake. Ya from da States, no?”
There was something melodic about his voice. She nodded, then scrunched her nose. “There's a really bad smell in here.” She wasn't just talking about her vomit.
The young guy laughed. “Me friend. He 'tink really bad, mon. He don' take no good baths, and he don' wash under his arms much. T'en he wonder why he no find a woman.”
Despite her circumstances, Shania found herself laughing with the young guy.
Then he gestured at her head. “Tat's a pretty bad knot on ya head.”
She wanted to touch the spot, but she couldn't. Her arms were securely tied. It seemed like she was building a good rapport with the young man, and she didn't want to do anything to ruin her chances at survival. Instinct told her that if she sat around chatting aimlessly with him until Big Stinky came around, she was as good as dead. So carefully choosing her words, she said, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one, miss.”
“You don't go to school?”
He glanced down at the floor for a few seconds, then looked back up at her. “Not 'cause me no want to. Me family no can afford school for me. I a Rasta. Ya don' know what a Rasta is because you and your husband have money. Ya don' have ta deal wit' ma reality.”
So that's what this was about. Money. She should've known. “What's your name?”
He looked at her as though she was crazy and shook his head. “Now how I look, pretty lady, tellin' you ma name? I no wanna go ta jail. And t'is type of stuff is da stuff ya go to jail for long time.”
Shania sent a prayer up to God, silently asking Him to place the words she needed to say to influence this young man directly in her mouth. He had goals and he had a heart. She knew if she dug deep enough, there was a chance that she could reach him. The same way God had allowed her to reach Jonathan, she prayed that He allowed her to reach this young man too. Then she took in a deep breath and said, “You are better than this. Do you know that?”
Again, he looked at her as though she was crazy.
“When life gives you an opportunity, what do you do?”
The young boy walked across the room and pulled back the heavy curtain as he glanced out the window. Then he returned his attention to her. “Life gives me no opportunity,” he said, and there was a bitterness to his tone and expression.
Realizing that at any moment Big Stinky could barge in the room, Shania mustered up all her courage and said, “Life does give opportunities, even to people like you. Think about it this way.” She cleared her throat. “You saw me and my husband, and you figured we had money. So you kidnapped us, thinking that you could ransom us and make some fast money. Wasn't that an opportunity that you decided to take?”
Even though he kept his eyes riveted to the floor, she could tell that he was listening to her.
She shifted in her bed, unable to get comfortable in her restraints. “Don't you know that God will use your enemies as your footstool? You don't know me, anymore than I know you, but I know a man around your age who put his life on the line to go back to the hood and save one of his friends. He got shot twice because of it. Do you think he regretted getting caught in the line of fire just to save his friend?” She shook her head. “No. It was something he was willing to do. He took a chance because he saw that chance as his opportunity. So let me ask you something. If the only reason why I'm tied down to this bed is because of money, then untie me and allow me to bless you. Allow me to invest in you so you can go back to your hood and tell other people in your same situation that positive opportunities still exist and miracles still happen.”
She held her breath, waiting for his response, knowing full well that this might be her only opportunity to save herself, her child, and her husband. The young man walked to the window and looked out the curtain again.
Finally, he took a deep breath, then held up his shirt, giving her a small glimpse of his washboard abs. He pulled out a rustic knife from his waistband. At the sight of the knife, every molecule of air escaped her lungs, and she struggled to breath. Her eyes seemed glued to the knife as she stared at its bamboo handle and the rustic blade that seemed as though it was hand-molded from sheet metal.
With the knife clutched in his hand at his side, he walked over to the bed she was tied to and slowly raised the knife above his head. “I didn't wan' ta do dis,” he said and worked his jaw while he worked the knife in his hands, “but I gotta.”
Her heart sounded like an African drum as she stared into his big brown eyes and waited for the blow that would end her life. Just as the blade swung down from above his head, she squeezed her eyes closed and prayed that he would hit her heart and death would follow swiftly.
 
 
In the darkness, Greg lay shackled to the bed, wondering how in the world was he going to get out of this mess. Since he had no concept of time, he had no idea how long the woman had been gone, and even less of an idea of when she would return. He knew that at any given moment, the door could fly open and that crazy woman could come in and end his life.
As he continued to repeat the Twenty-third Psalm, a calming peace came over him, and he recalled the Bible verse that Jesus had told his disciples before he went to take up the cross.
My peace I give unto you
. It sounded ludicrous to be shackled and tied to a bed in the pitch-black darkness, unsure of whether he'd live or die, unsure of whether his wife and child were alive or not, and to still have a peace that surpassed all understanding.

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