Entry 39
Abby:
The house looked perfectly ordinary from the outside—calm, tasteful, framed by manicured hedges and a tall, well-oiled gate. But the moment I stepped through the front door, I felt it. Something wasn’t right.
There were too many eyes. Men in suits stood like silent statues, positioned as if part of the décor—but they weren’t guests. They were watching. Deolu’s hand tightened around mine as we walked in. It wasn’t affection. It was possession.
We were led into a lounge where his “friend” was waiting. An older man, perhaps late fifties, dressed in silk and sipping whisky from a heavy crystal tumbler. He stood when we entered, his eyes scanning me before his mouth curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You’re even more stunning in person,” he said.
I didn’t respond.
Deolu did all the speaking. He was animated—boasting, laughing, showing me off like some sort of prize he’d won. I sat there, still foggy from whatever he’d slipped into my tea that morning. My body was there, but I was somewhere else.
“Let’s have a drink,” the man suggested.
I seized the moment. Mumbled something about needing the bathroom. Once inside, I locked the door, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on my face. The girl staring back at me in the mirror looked like me, but wasn’t. Her eyes were glazed. Her lips, too red. Her spirit, muted.
Then I heard it—Deolu’s voice, sharp and rising. The older man was irritated I hadn’t come back quickly enough. Panic surged.
There was a small window above the sink. Without thinking too hard, I slipped off the heels, climbed up, and dropped down into the garden below. My ankle twisted beneath me, but adrenaline took over. I didn’t look back.
I ran. Limping, yes—but running. I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I had to leave.
Anywhere was better than staying…..hmmmmmm
Chris:
By now, we had been drifting for days. I couldn’t even tell how many—time had lost its shape. I asked Thomas and he said, “Three.”
Only three? It felt like forever. My throat ached. Tears slid down my cheeks, and I wasn’t even crying.
We were told to ration—one bite of bread, one sip of water per day. I remember asking how long the journey would take. The guide shrugged and muttered, “Depends… maybe two, three—”
“Days?” I interrupted.
“No,” he scoffed. “Weeks.”
The storm had passed, but the stillness it left behind was worse. The motor had died in the night. The guides had gone quiet—grim-faced, barely meeting our eyes.
One of them cursed in Arabic and threw an empty bottle overboard.
Behind me, someone murmured a prayer. Others lay motionless, eyes wide and fixed on nothing, their will worn thin.
Then—hope. A dark shape in the distance. A ship? An island?
Excitement surged. People stood too fast, waving, shouting. The boat rocked violently. We pleaded with them to sit back down, to wait.
It wasn’t a ship. It was just a rock. Lifeless. Cold. We drifted past it, unnoticed, unseen.
The heat intensified. Our water ran out.
Some started drinking seawater—first out of desperation, then delusion. One woman kept whispering her mother’s name, stretching out her hand as though reaching for a ghost.
Thomas leaned towards me, voice hoarse: “If we die here… at least we tried.”
I looked at him, and something in me rebelled.
“No,” I whispered. “We’re not dying here. We’re not done yet.”
The sea said nothing. But the sky shifted, just slightly. A faint speck on the horizon. A ship? A rock? Or maybe… something divine?
I didn’t know. But I kept my eyes fixed on it. I clung to hope.
Because I knew, deep down, we were not done yet….hmmmm
