Paradise Abductions
Copyright 2013 Mia Rodriguez
Photo cover by the brilliant artist Alex "Pelos" Briseño
Dedication
This novel is for all the young woman out there facing difficult situations. Your brains and hearts are more powerful than any diversity.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 1
The day is almost here when I'll be forced to marry the smelly creep.
Gross.
Disgusting.
Unimaginable.
It'll be in just a few short months when I turn sixteen.
"Bring me some coffee," he commands, his grey eyes leveled on me. I hate having to do what he tells me but the last time I refused him service, he beat me with his discipline club.
"Hurry now," he warns, his fingers curled around the black mini-baseball bat. He may be seventy years old, but he can still pack quite a punch.
I rush to the kitchen, my insides entangled in fury but my face in a passive stance. I had learned to mask my true feelings a long time ago. I pour coffee from the coffeemaker into his favorite mug--the one with a picture of a jolly Santa on the front.
"You know how I like it, right?" he yells from where he's at in the next room, the dining room.
"Yes, Master Barstowe," I say, loud enough for him to hear but not so loud that he considers it disrespectful and whacks me with the club.
I grab the cream but leave the sugar. The Mister, as I call him, likes his coffee as bitter as he is. Then I take the secret ingredient out of my pocket. I had put it in a small bottle and quickly pour it in his drink.
"What's taking you so long?" he growls.
"I'm coming," I say as I rush back to the dining room with his coffee. I set it next to him on the table and put two tablespoons of cream in it as he watches intently.
One time, I had poured a third spoonful by mistake. He had knocked the mug off the table with the club, and then he had pounded me three times--one for each spoonful.
I stir the coffee briskly as the Mister looks on with a smile on his well creased face. Handing it to him, I lower my eyes so I don't meet his gaze.
"You are doing so well, Monica."
I want to yell that that's not my name, but of course, I can't. All I can do is remind myself like I've done for so many years that my real name is Frida--Frida Ruiz.
"You're coming along great," the Mister continues, his voice in full praise form. "I'm so proud of you."
"Thank you, Master Barstowe," I say, masking the sarcasm in my tone.
"You are sooo beautiful, Little Bird," he gushes with emotion as his eyes rake over my slightly wavy, almost-black hair, my sienna complexion, and my thin from starvation body.
I want to retch! All I can say is that I'm eternally grateful for the ugly rags I'm forced to wear. All destiny-brides wear the same type of clothes. The long, shapeless dress the color of opaque mud hides me from his prying eyes. When his sight finishes sweeping over me and lands on my dark-brown eyes, I make a concerted effort not to grimace.
"You are learning your wifely lessons like a champ. You're almost ready for marriage. This meal was excellent," he states, pointing at the dish with only the grizzle of steak and a few dabs of mashed potatoes left.
"Thank you," I repeat, shoving the sarcasm further down inside of me.
"Take the rest of it," he declares, pushing the plate towards me. "You earned it, Little Bird."
I wish I could throw the plate at his smug, ugly face but the menacing black club sits on the table, next to his right hand. His fingers are just itching to curl themselves around it and discipline me, as the Elders call what they do to girls. No, I definitely can't break the plate on his head. Besides, my stomach is growling so much that to be honest, I'd rather eat the leftovers on his plate than throw them at him.
I'm starving.
All the girls in Paradise Village are.
"Now, sit down and eat," he commands, allowing me to move away from his right side where I'm forced to stand while he eats. Finally, I get off my aching, blistering feet.
I sit down and take the plate he had pushed towards me. Before I can dig in with my mouth as my hands stay on my sides, he bangs his fist on the table.
"No future wife of mine is going to eat like an animal," he retorts.
I quizzically look at him. I had always eaten this way. The Elders didn't permit us to use silverware or even to eat with our fingers until we were married. In the meantime, we had to eat like dogs when they stick their snouts in their food.
"My Little Bird," he explains, "We only have a few months to go before our wedded bliss, and I've had enough of seeing you eat like an animal. Go ahead and start using utensils when you're with me."
"But if the Elders found out--"
"Don't worry about them. I'll take full responsibility for this. Besides, what they don't know won't hurt them."
I hesitate. The Elders are indescribably cruel and if they find out about this . .
"Monica, take the fork now!" he menaces.
I decide to do as I'm told. After all, what difference does it make if the Mister beats me or if the Elders do it? I'm in horrible pain either way.
Grabbing the fork, the extra one he had made me set, I make sure I don't drop it or he'll make me use his. I'd rather eat with my hands than utilize the one with his DNA. Thankfully, I don't have to. The expensive fork feels strange in my fingers as I try picking up the remains of the mashed potatoes with it. At first, the food drops back to the plate. He frowns deeply, but what does he expect? I hadn't had any silverware training yet. That wouldn't happen until a month before the wedding--a month before my birthday.
My stomach growls loudly. I hold the fork firmly in my hands, willing it to do what I tell it. Those fluffy remnants of white, mashed potatoes are a dream in my salivating mouth, a ghost in my rumbling stomach, and an obsession on my dusty taste buds.
I pick up the mashed potatoes once more with the rebellious fork. Slowly, but with overwhelming anxiousness, I manage to make it to my mouth, quickly pulling the fork out when my tongue feels the buttery spuds practically melt on it.
"Very good, Little Bird," the Mister gushes happily.
Ignoring him, I swiftly stab my fork into the steak grizzle, and shove it in my mouth.
"Whoa!" he snaps as his fingers clasp the club and he brings it down on my left shoulder, a harsh thumping sound resonates.
"Ow!" I yell involuntarily but then I abruptly bite my tongue. If I continue my whining as he calls it, he'll continue hitting me. Besides, I hate for him to know that he got the best of me.
"I told you!--I don't want you eating like a savage!" he snaps. "Us
e your utensils like a lady uses them."
I rub my aching shoulder and don't say a word, fury boiling inside of me.
"Now, Little Bird," he coos, his tone changing from harsh to gentle. "You know how much I hate hurting you, right?"
I keep rubbing my shoulder, letting the silence speak for itself.
"When I discipline you, believe it or not, it hurts me more than it hurts you," he explains, his voice soft.
Really? I think sarcastically. Let me whack you and see how much it hurts me.
"I discipline you because I love you, Little Bird."
I lower my face, so he doesn't see me cringe.
"I love you so much, Monica," he murmurs. "You have no idea how big my love for you is."
There are only six weeks and two days before I have to marry this creep. The countdown has begun and each day that passes, I feel like a certain death is getting closer and closer. Not that I'm that much alive now. I exist--that's the best I can say for my life in Paradise Village where we girls are trained to serve our future husbands.
"My Little Bird, shall we try again with the fork?" he asks gently, but underneath his kind voice is the threat.
I take the fork and slowly start feeding myself. The Mister smiles brightly at me. He tells me with his eyes that he's pleased with me.
I take an abrupt breath as he grabs his coffee.
"It's probably a little cold by now," he says, "but I won't make you heat it up for me. I want you to enjoy your meal." He takes a loud sip.
"How is it, Master Barstowe?" I ask, hiding the snickering in my voice.
"Very good," he answers enthusiastically.
I smile for the first time that evening. He smiles back thinking I'm pleased that he's happy with my coffee.
That's not why I'm smiling.
He takes a huge gulp and keeps grinning. The special ingredient I had put in earlier from the small bottle in my apron tastes good to him. His expensive white dentures and well cared for mouth by the best of dentists is being engulfed with costly European specialty coffee and dog urine mixed with excrement.
Yes, that's what he's drinking.
I have to muffle a dark chuckle.
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