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Taylor

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

They say that when you’re close to death, your life flashes before your eyes like a movie. You mostly remember the past.

My past was marked by pain: a mother who, contrary to what I told that wretch, didn’t die of thrombosis but rather was killed in a robbery; a wonderful father, but one who became an alcoholic because he never got over losing the woman he loved.

There’s a saying among cops: “one bullet, two dead.” That’s what happened to my family. The man who killed my mother also took my father with him. The only difference is that Dad left this world bit by bit, through drinking.

I don’t have the same kind of childhood memories most kids do. The first thing I remember is how, at Christmastime, my father would lose himself in alcohol. Dinners and festivities came second to his grief. Then this “inverted celebration,” his grieving ritual, started extending to every special occasion, leaving me with only one date I wasn’t afraid to face: my birthday.

On that day, Dad would shave, cut his hair, and go back to being, for those twenty-four hours, the perfect man he used to be.

I don’t blame him for turning to alcohol. But I can’t pretend I had more happy days than sad ones in my past. So now, as I take a step toward what could mean the difference between my life or my death, I focus not on what’s behind me, but on all that’s still to come.

I want a future.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

“I’m hungry now. Guess I’ve gotten out of the habit of walking.”

He touches my face, and I suppress a wave of revulsion.

We’re standing at the entrance to the kitchen, and I can already smell the gas. I know I don’t have much time. He’ll notice soon enough.

I grab the lighter I hid in my pocket before we left and wait just long enough for both of us to be inside the room. It’s my good fortune this bastard is a smoker. And not just any smoker—he’s addicted. He can’t go long without a cigarette. On countless occasions, back when I was still blindfolded, I smelled the smoke and even inhaled that disgusting smell.

Today, when I saw the lighter, I realized it was my only chance. In the case of my captor, his addiction to cigarettes will literally cut his life short.

We’re in the kitchen now, and from his stiff posture, I can tell he’s quickly realizing what happened. Without a word, he walks toward the stove. I make no sound, scarcely breathing. I inch toward the door, and as I pull it open, right when he turns around, I flick the lighter and run.

When I hear the first explosion, I’m already about thirty meters away.

Earlier, we walked for nearly twenty minutes, so I know which way the river lies.

I don’t look back.

I force myself to go faster and faster, though I’m terrified of what will happen once I get there.

And finally, I can’t go any farther.

My entire body is trembling. When I glance downward, I see water and rocks, and I pray I can make it out alive.

I reach the cliff’s edge and think of a conversation I once had with my dad.

“What superpower would you want?”

“To fly, Dad.”

Yes, I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to fly.

What does a bird experience when it spreads its wings and feels the wind rushing across its body?

Freedom, probably. That must be it.

But in order to know what it is to be free, it has to risk that first flight.

There’s the fear of falling, of dying, of the unknown.

There’s also the possibility of a reward—of becoming unreachable.

Doubts remain if you don’t take the risk.

It’s a terrifying decision for a human, but for a bird, it’s destiny.

In my case, there’s no choice.

Either I fly or I die, because I refuse to go back there. I won’t let him capture me again.

I have no wings. The fall is certain, but I will never surrender without a fight.

So I close my eyes, I pray, and I jump.

* * *

One Year Later

“I can’t go any faster than this.”

“I know, my dear, but please try. You’re doing so well!”

I drop onto the sand, frustrated. “I don’t know how you have so much patience with me, Mr. William.”

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re mine to protect. And stop calling me ‘Mister.’ We’ve had this conversation.”

Not for the first time, I feel uneasy hearing him say that. I like my protector, I owe him my life, but I don’t think our feelings run in the same direction.

When I came out of the coma eleven months ago, he was by my side. Even though I couldn’t remember my name, let alone him, I accepted his care because I was terrified of being alone in the world.

But now, as I get better, I feel more and more suffocated. It’s like he lives and breathes for me, because of me.

And there’s also the fact that, even though he claims to know me, he won’t tell me anything about my past. He says he’s respecting the medical team’s instructions.

What medical team? Since leaving the hospital, I’ve never been back to one. I don’t know who I am or how I ended up in a coma with two broken legs. I don’t know why I must live on an island, far from everyone, or above all, why he’s taking care of me.

He says he was my protector in the past, that we were close—but if that’s so, how come I don’t feel safe around him?

“I don’t want to be useless forever. What did I do before the incident?” I ask irritably, referring to the “incident,” as he calls it, that forced me into daily physical therapy.

“Don’t say that; you’re not useless.”

“Then when can I go back to the mainland?”

“Is that what you want? To leave me?”

I gaze at the sea, feeling even more hopeless. “How can I know what I want if I don’t remember anything? What was I to you?”

“You were mine, like I said before. You were my girlfriend.”

My stomach ties itself in knots.

He takes a step forward; I shudder and shrink back instantly. It’s the first time he’s shown any hint of wanting more than just to help me. I know he’s insisted I was his woman, but when I told him I didn’t remember and didn’t want to be touched, he respected my boundaries. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry, certain I’d love him again in time.

“Please, no. I’m sorry I don’t remember being important to you, but for anything to happen between us, I need to get my memories back.”

“You’re being ungrateful.”

“What?”

“I’ve done nothing but be the best man in the world. The best partner.”

I say nothing, stunned, and soon he looks remorseful for his outburst.

“I’m sorry, Taylor.”

“Is that really my name?”

“Yes, Taylor Jarvis.”

“Let me go online. Look myself up.”

“It’s not time yet.”

“Don’t you realize you’re healing my body but harming my mind, William? I’m going insane here.”

He’s silent for several minutes. “You’re right. You’re strong enough now. Let’s go on a cruise. We’ll stop at some islands, walk through their streets, have dinner out. Once you’re one hundred percent better, we’ll go back to the States.”

My heart speeds up. That was one of the few things he told me—that I’m American. “Swear it to God.”

“I don’t believe in God, Taylor. It’s a useless oath. But for you, yes, I swear.”