MOONHAVEN CHRONICLES: The Captive mate

I nearly escape, my things packed and my key in my hand, just as I am about to lock the door, that’s when I hear footsteps.

If I were living a normal life, I would have thought it was probably my neighbors returning from a late

night party. But no, nothing about my life has been normal ever since my mum died.

I know they have found me, so I do not bother locking the door. I drop the key and run. Soon, I realize all exits have been blocked. One of the masked men slaps me across the cheek.

“That is for giving us a hard time.” Then he brings out a gun, pulls the trigger.

I wake up with a shout.

“Oh my God, oh my God. It was a dream. It was a dream. I escaped. I’m still alive.” I try to tell my brain that.

But my heart is still beating fast. I have had nightmares, but this one feels so real. Running, always running. And it seems as though it will never end.

I do not know what they want from me. But those are the last words my mum said before she died.

Run.

She never told me what or who I am running from, or where I am running to.

That was yesterday.

Today, I woke up from another weird dream I keep having. Broke people should not be having wet dreams, but since that is the only way I ever get a taste of sex, I have no right to complain.

The strange thing is that the man in the dream never reveals his face. I keep feeling as though it is too real to be just a dream, or that he is waiting for me somewhere.

But that cannot be possible.

Can it?

I look around my cheap dig, a tiny space that barely fits a bed. I move in last month. It is not much, but it is mine. It is better than the room I used to share with my late mum before she died last year.

She actually died on my birthday.

What does that say about me?

Since then, I have been on the run. I have nearly been killed, kidnapped, sold off, slaughtered, whatever method they choose.

Over time, I discovered that I am being chased by different groups of people. Who they are and what they want from me, I never care enough to find out. When you see stranger men with different weapons you never knew existed, you don’t offer them a sit and chitchat, you run. As fast as you can.

In the space of one year, I moved through seven different provinces. I am not even surprised by how they keep finding me.

At this point, I keep my bank cards and personal documents with me at all times. I carry my essentials everywhere, ready to leave at the slightest hint of danger or any suspicious activity.

The last time, I worked as a church cleaner. The pay was not much, but I thought it will be safe.

I was wrong.

Whoever is looking for me ended up killing the resident pastor when he tried to help me.

I escaped.

Barely.

After staying here for three weeks, I finally secured a job at a restaurant. Today is my third day, and I am already tired of the manager.

All I want is to keep my head down, work, get paid, and stay under the radar. I try not to attract attention, no matter how many times the ugly creep grabs my ass. I do not have the luxury of getting angry and losing my job.

Today is my birthday, and I wake up to a leaking roof.

Wow. What a beautiful way to start my day. I mean, what else could possibly go wrong?

My bike.

Dear universe, when I ask what else could possibly go wrong, it was not a challenge. So why is my bike refusing to start when I am already five minutes late?

My motorcycle needs servicing, and no matter how much I plead with it to start, the stubborn beast refuses to listen.

Well.

Happy birthday to me.

I start trekking to work. Luckily, my workplace is not far from my cell, because the place I live in cannot possibly be called a room.

But it is all I can afford.

When I arrive, my manager calls me into his office and starts shouting about how incompetent I am.

I am sure he raises his voice so everyone can hear him. He humiliates me in front of everyone without actually doing it in their presence. I remain silent and let him finish. Then I apologize for coming late and go out to start taking orders.

At the end of my shift, exhausted, I am called into his office once again. I have no choice but to go. The moment I step inside, he instructs me to close the door.

I do.

I wait for him to speak, but instead, he stands and walks toward me.

I fight the urge to step back.

“Why are you resisting me when I can make your life much easier?” he asks, stepping into my personal space.

I keep telling myself not to punch him.

“Sir, I am here to work and get paid. I am not interested in anything else,” I reply, looking him straight in the eye.

He smiles.

“But I can make it more interesting for you. Don’t waste your beauty.”

The word beauty lands with his palm on my breast, followed by a deliberate squeeze.

I see red.

My fist connects with his nose, followed by a hard kick to his groin. He collapses to his knees, his face turning crimson. That pain should keep him occupied long enough before he calls the police if I stick around.

And yes, I have been through this before. The police never take my word for it.

So I walk out.

Unemployed once more.

What a glorious birthday.