Page 5 of Eternal Craving

With a deep breath, I opened the door. My mother sat on the edge of the bed with my grandfather’s hand in hers. Although she turned her head in my direction, she didn’t look at me. My grandmother was sitting in a nearby armchair, and she, too, avoided my gaze.

Roelle Bastillion, the twenty-three-year-old owner of the ranch where my brother worked, loomed in a corner. He glanced at me sideways.

“Daumia, where have you been?” he asked.

I hesitated to explain, fearful of worsening my mother’s disappointed demeanor.

When I refused to answer, Roelle turned to look at my mother.

“Daumia will be well taken care of,” he said. “Discipline won’t put it right, but he’ll come to understand the consequences.”

I looked down and saw my bloody shirt spread out near my mother’s feet. I struggled to speak. Bile rose in my throat and threatened to spew.

Roelle reached for me and clutched my arm. “I know it seems harsh,” he said. “Better to come with me than to thebastille.” His fingers covered a cut near my elbow, and it started bleeding again as he squeezed.

The more I wriggled, the firmer he held me. Mother still wouldn’t look at me.

Roelle dragged me out of the room, shoving me along the corridor and down the stairs. I dug my heels in, but I was unable to escape his ironclad grip as he hauled me outside.

“What’s going on?” I tried to break free again.

“Silence,” Roelle demanded, yanking me along.

“I want to talk to my brother,” I yelled.

He paused, staring down at me. “Ricardo is dead.”

Chapter Three

The dank, dark cell smelt of stale wine.

With my head buried in my hands, I tried to process what had happened to Ricardo. My mind scrambled to comprehend it. Roelle had confirmed my worst fear – my brother had died in the bullring.

Lack of light made it impossible to determine the passing of time. The unrelenting cold chilled my bones, the pain burrowing in as I wrapped discarded hessian sacks around my body to prevent myself from freezing.

My arrival at Roelle’s estate had gone unnoticed. I’d been locked up in the cellars before any of the staff had gotten a look at me. Perhaps no one else knew where to find me.

In the silence, my chaotic thoughts took control.

On the stone walls, I made out patterns, and distorted faces emerged. I counted the exposed bricks until I had them memorized, then changed positions to alter the view.

Recalling the way my bedroom looked, I closed my eyes and pretended I was back there. Imagined the chair I sat in at breakfast, the way the pot in the hearth swung back and forth after my mother had stirred the broth – and my mother’s face,the way her top lip curled when she smiled. She’d forgive me, come back for me.

Save me.

Forty bricks across and thirty-eight down. Paint still covered the last few I counted. I used my hands to judge how many there were before they reached the ground. After counting the bricks, I kicked them, twisting my ankle and sending brown dust into the air. I didn’t try it again.

I developed a love-hate relationship with the bucket in the corner, grateful that I had it, but feeling hateful when its stench overwhelmed me.

Despite protesting that I didn’t know anything about his friend Aaron, who’d mysteriously disappeared at the mausoleum after nearly ending my life, Roelle had used his fists to force my recollection. His knuckles had struck my flesh, punched my old bruises and made new ones. Curled up, I’d tucked my knees beneath me, using my hands to protect my face. With each strike came his worsening frustration.

“If I knew, I’d tell you,” I cried.

He had stormed out.

My sobs had caused a rift in the stillness.

Guilt for my brother’s death eased during the long days when a visit from Roelle distracted me. Physical and mental torture became frequent. Fretful to learn the fate of his best friend, Aaron, he had interrogated me. I tried to convince him that I knew nothing.