Sliding my bound foot over, I checked the rope snaking around my left ankle. The thick black nylon was so tightly woven that it would take several hours to get through it, even if I had something sharp. Following the rope, I realized it was knotted into a carabiner hooked onto the bed frame, which was padlocked together. Ensuring I couldn't move far unless the whole bed did as well, which would make noise and alert them.
“Listen with your heart first. Head later. They’re yours, Chovihani.”My heart tugged at the mixture of missing and knowing it wasn’t her. She was dead. This voice had to be a figment of my imagination… right?
The words from that weird dream floated through my mind. My logical side wanted to reject the idea that I heard my mom's spirit in my dream, but the Romani side had doubts, knowing that signs were not to be ignored.
No matter what side I believed, I doubted she was right about them. These men didn't seem like they were anything close to being mine and I theirs. In the best of cases, Cezar was just a crazy person who kidnapped me on a whim and would keep me around as a pet until he grew bored or his brothers killed me just to get rid of me.
One thing was for sure: Cezar was the only one who wanted me here. The crazy, unstable psycho was my only lifeline. Great.
That familiar tightening of my chest as my stomach tied itself in knots rose again; my throat clenched to keep from upchucking at my situation. Closing my eyes, I shoved that anxiety away and reminded myself I could do this. I had tools in my head to be able to handle a psychopath.
Thinking back to my classes and what Dr. Centella taught me…
There are four subtitles of psychopaths: Narcissistic, Borderline Instability, Sadistic, and anti-social. Each has its primary objective. A narcissist is driven by an extreme sense of self-importance, a borderline individual exhibits emotional instability and a major fear of abandonment, a sadist finds pleasure in inflicting pain on others, and an antisocial psycho has a lack of remorse and disregard for social norms, often exhibiting manipulative and interacting in criminal behavior without concern for others.
From what I've seen, Cezar seems on the borderline inability track. Mood swings, making fast and quick connections, obsessive behavior, fear of abandonment, impulsivity, but I also knew that being a psycho meant you never fell into a perfect profile. I needed to spend more time with him. See all his sides before I could count on them.
Slumping against the backboard, I looked down, and flashes of my dream surged forward—the field of Romani flowers, my mom's voice, the dove, the mark on my arm. Running my hands against the cool, soft cotton sheets, a faint hint of floral fields hit my nostrils.
Then, when my mom called me Chovihani, I hadn't heard her use that term in years, not after our big argument at my high school graduation.
I wanted to attend college to live the typical American dream, but my mom had other plans. She told me that before she came to America, when she didn't even know she was pregnant with me, her grandma, thePuri Daiof her tribe, told her she would birth a greatChovihanifor our people. I would need to be trained in our ways when I came of age.
I remember how mad she got at me when I told her it was superstitious nonsense. Never in her life had she looked at me with that mixture of horror, disappointment, and rage. It was the first and only time that she slapped me across my face, telling me that being a Romani wasn't just a background; it was a way of life, a different way oflookingat life.
In the end, we both apologized, but I still went to college, and she was still disappointed in me. This dream that felt so real felt much more than just a dream that had me doubting my ‘Romani nonsense’ comment. Now that she’s gone, I missed learning more about that side.
A ghost of that burning sensation flared against my forearm, and I looked down at my clear skin. Not a blemish or burn in sight.
With the pad of my finger, I traced that spot, making the symbol by memory. The soothing motion calmed me, and I drew it repeatedly until something about that symbol jarred my memory. I’d seen this symbol before.
Scanning the area around me, I didn't find anything like it. Thinking back, I only remember it in passing, just a glance, not something I paid much attention to, as if I was watching something else more intently.
A tingly feeling crawling just underneath the skin had me looking around, trying hard to remember. My gaze landed on the door. A vision flashed before my eyes. Cezar was leaving the room, and I squinted as the light shone into the room from the hallway. Like before, he turned his neck to say his last words; I could see something was on his neck. A tattoo. One that looked familiar to the eye burned into my forearm.
What the fuck did that mean?
Before I went into an irrational spiral, I reminded myself I was already in a heightened state and that jumping to conclusions would only cause problems. I needed a better look at his neck before determining they were identical.
Who's to say the dream even meant anything anyway? I was in a traumatic situation, and maybe this was the way my mind was coping with both my mom's death and the kidnapping. Yes! They always say your dreams are your subconscious trying to resolve lingering feelings and issues. My mom just passed. I haven’t had a lot of time to grieve, and this was my mind's way of trying to help me. Making me think there were connections to things that weren't. I could’ve just seen the tattoo and dreamt about it. Swatting away that ache in my soul that told me I was wrong, I focused on what was real and in front of me.
Information. I needed more information about my surroundings. Peeking around the room, I tried to figure out clues to tell me what time of day it was. With no windows or clocks, I was completely lost. I was slightly sure that Cezar would feed me since I was his little pet at the moment, but that was relying heavily on a psycho to think about anyone but himself, so I wasn't holding my breath.
I didn't know if one of them, whether Cezar or his brothers, would eventually come in here wanting something, and I needed to be ready. I could ask about a bathroom break. Maybe find out if anyone else was here. Try to get a few of my questions answered before I could plan to escape.
Glancing at the water on the nightstand, I picked it up and took a long gulp. Stay hydrated and ready because right now, it was all about survival.
“Get up, woman.”
Someone shook me, and my eyes flew open. The scent of woodsy musk filled the air, and I knew I was not the only one in this room. With my eyes squinted at the space in front of me, three tall, masked manly shapes hovered near me. My mouth felt dry and chalky, and I desperately wanted something to drink. I must've fallen asleep again, but I had no weird dreams this time.
“Where’s Margaret Jones?”
The deep, commanding voice made me turn, opening my eyes wider to see three masked men standing before me. The one talking had his bulky arms crossed in front of him; even if I couldn't see his face or eyes, I could feel the annoyance in his voice.
“What?” I responded, confused as to why he was asking about my mom.
“Great! So, you got the dumb girl that can't answer simple questions.” The middle one threw his hands out, turning to the last mask beside him. This one had more of a slight build but was very animated, almost overly so.
