Micaden’s Madness

by Mason, V. F.

  His blond hair blows in the wind while he crosses his arms, gazing at me with such hate it forces bile into my throat. I touch my hair, willing the throb to go away, because I can’t faint now.

  And without my medication, I will.

  Whenever my eyes had landed on him in the last several weeks, I couldn’t help but adore his physique and handsomeness that always put my body on high alert. But now?

  He disgusts me, but disgust is a good coverup for the heart-clenching fear that presses against something in my mind I can’t catch, only some images slamming into my brain that make no sense to me, and they change so fast I can’t grab onto any of them. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I find my voice, focusing only on survival mode, and oddly enough, it calms me down.

  It feels like muscle memory, but I shake away the thought, because never in my life did I have to protect myself from evil or psychotic men. Right?

  “Remember the book I was writing? It was about Brochan and Emerald. About us, I understand that now,” I add, but he stays silent, so I explain further, hoping all this will stop his madness. “I have no idea what happened that made you hate me so much.” This also explains the names of Tom and Eve. Their middle names are Donovan and Olivia, that’s why I used them in the story.

  He continues to stare harshly and then hunches next to me, and I crawl back, afraid of his presence. Nausea hits me at the prospect of him touching me, but he doesn’t let me get away.

  His hand locks around my ankle, and I whimper, because it’s sore from the fall. I must have twisted it, but it doesn’t stop him. He presses his fingers on it and pulls me toward him while his other hand wraps around my throat, locking me in his arms.

  “A book,” he says, his voice curious, and then he presses his fingers more, digging into my sore flesh, and I cry out into his mouth, since he’s so close to me I can feel his breath on my lips. “And how does this prove otherwise?” He pushes me away and gets up while I lie on my back, my heart beating violently in my chest.

  “What you’re saying doesn’t even make sense,” I speak out again, because I have no intention of giving up. “If I remembered everything, don’t you think I would have acted like this with everyone?”

  “Emerald, are you deaf? I never claimed you remembered everything all this time. But you remember now.” My brows furrow as I sit up, holding his stare while he leans on the rail, acting like the fucking king of the world. “Human psychology is an interesting topic, I have to say. They say fear can block or unlock memories that people try to forget. Why do you think I never took you diving? I insisted on everything else, but this. I saved it for the grand finale.” He takes out a cigarette from his pocket and lights it so casually fury boils inside me.

  “Then I truly don’t understand. Why do you think I’m guilty of any crimes?”

  He bursts out laughing, but it lacks any humor and sends cold shivers down my spine. “I think you can answer that question yourself, since you remember everything.”

  “Brochan, from my book, loved Emerald.” I prefer to speak about our story in this way, because the idea that I experienced all these emotions with this man is surreal and frightening at the same time. “And she loved him.”

  “Really?” He exhales smoke, his voice holding little enthusiasm.

  “Yes. I have no idea why you hate me so much.” Huffing, I rub my ankle and wiggle it a little while I rein in my emotions. It hurts, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to run on it for long.

  I chuckle, because on the fucking boat in the middle of nowhere, where would I go?

  So escaping his clutches easily is out of the question. “The last thing I remember is writing a scene where Donovan came to pick her up. And then her parents entered the room. And after that, it’s blank. I don’t know what happens. I don’t remember.” I remember only the things I have flashbacks of and the pages from the book that finally make sense in this hazy mind of mine. Also, my family and what life was before Brochan. In a way, relief pours through my bones and soothes my mind, because I struggled with this for so long and always came up empty. But this time, there’s an explanation for all. Well, except Kaden, who calls himself my brother, but I know we’re not blood related. Whatever the reason, I’m still grateful to him and don’t care about it.

  He is my brother in every other sense of the word.

  I’m not insane, and the reason I love all these people is that they are my people. I spent every summer here, forming friendships and relationships.

  The memory loss took it away from me, but I have it back. And even though the circumstances could have been better, I’m still glad I have them back. “I was in an accident—”

  “I know about that,” he replies, throwing the cigarette in the trashcan near him, and then cracks his neck from side to side.

  “You do?”

  “I know everything about you. From your favorite coffee place to your habit of wiggling your nose when your students come up with some awesome idea, according to you.”

  What? My students? But how was he… “You spied on me.” Oh my God, this truly puts him in the psycho box. Maybe after I ran away from my parents, he came after me, and we realized the relationship wasn’t healthy? Maybe I couldn’t take his obsession with me, or possessiveness, and broke it off, and he didn’t take it kindly?

  This surely explains why Kaden didn’t want me to come back here or how this part of my life was hidden from me.

  His words echo in my ears.

  Remember that sometimes there’s no choice in our actions.

  He is protective by nature, maybe this was the only way to save me from Micaden and his madness.

  “Spied is too big a word for it. Hunters always study their prey if they want to catch them.”

  “And by hunter, you mean a killer?” I raise my hand to shut him up, because I’m not interested in his reply. “You are a sociopath, and you are obsessed with me. I got that part. No wonder I forgot you.” I throw the words in his face, fisting my hands, because I can’t believe my own stupidity.

  I fell for his act twice. Maybe my mind has been too traumatized to remember this. Maybe he pulled something similar in the past.

  He clacks his tongue, clicking his fingers and chuckling, finding my words hilarious it seems. “Have you ever heard of the Karpman drama triangle?” I frown at his question, shifting a little, but it does nothing to numb the pain in my joints. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “That’s a no, I assume. Let me enlighten you.”

  “I’m not interested,” I jab when an idea flashes in my mind, speeding up my pulse. He has a radio near the steering wheel. If I divert his attention from me long enough and I run toward it, I might be able to contact the coast guard and they’ll help me.

  I just need to knock him out cold first, because even if he’s slightly conscious, he won’t allow me to do that. He’s too strong for me to handle.

  That’s when I notice the boat paddles lying a few feet away from me. They’re made of the finest wood, which means when it hits someone, it’ll be painful, more than it would be with the plastic ones.

  Or so I hope.

  “I don’t give a fuck if you’re interested or not.” I glance back at Micaden, who watches me tentatively, but then glues his sight on the horizon, and I shift closer to the paddles, but slowly so he won’t notice any rapid movements from the corner of his eye. “So it basically has three variables. The victim, the rescuer, and the persecutor.” Why is he telling me this? How is this even related to our freaking problem?

  I slide closer again, sighing in relief when my ankle pain is not as evident. It should be enough to run and take him down once I reach the paddles. “They always go hand in hand and you can change roles too.”

  “You are insane.” Because what else is there to say?

  “Emerald, you are always the victim.” What? “Even now, your brain magically has found a solution for all this. I was an asshole who hurt you, right? That’s wh
y you don’t remember.” He wiggles his fingers. “You weren’t always one though. You like to play a persecutor too.”

  “What you’re saying makes no sense, nor do I care to try to understand it.”

  He sighs as if finding my words stupid and I slide again, almost reaching the paddles before he turns his cold stare on me and I freeze, practically feeling my heartbeat in my throat. “I never participated in the triangle drama until you.” He walks to me, slowly, while his eyes skate over me and satisfaction fills them.

  Freaking insane man who gets off on my pain.

  “I was a rescuer when I saved you on the beach and then took care of you, all while you were afraid of your parents.” He kneels down, grabbing my chin painfully, and I wince, detesting showing my weakness to him. “Then you made me the victim of your and your family’s lies.” He doesn’t elaborate on the point though, because he quickly adds, “And then you made me a persecutor.”

  “Our life is our choice. Whatever your stupid mind imagines, your insanity is not my fault,” I spit in his face while he tightens his hold, and I whimper, but he then slides his fingers to my collarbone, ignoring my words.

  “But you are still a victim, even now, expecting something magical to happen to save your ass. And you know the funny thing about victims and persecutors? They go hand in hand. I’m no longer your savior.”

  “Good, because I’m not a victim.” And with that, I grab the paddle and with all my might hit him in the face, ready to fight for my life with everything I have.

  Even if I have to be a persecutor in all this.

  Micaden

  Victim, rescuer, persecutor.

  There are people who always go hand in hand, no matter what happens, seeking each there like moths to flames. The bond is always unbreakable until someone wants out of it.

  It’s all the same players playing the same game, just changing the roles that are always vitally important to the triangles.

  Except this time, there’s no rescuer.

  What happens when a victim and persecutor meet in a fight where there’s no hope in sight?

  So many possibilities.

  Roles might shift or they won’t. Strengths might be tested or they aren’t. Emotions can cloud judgments or they can’t.

  One truth stays the same though.

  They live in the roles until one of them dies.

  Let the game begin, and may the stronger one win.

  Chapter Eighteen

  United States

  Micaden, 22 years old

  “If I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut about why you’re here,” the prison guard informs me as we pass various cells with men sitting on their beds, others drawing, and some even staring stupidly at walls plastered with miscellaneous newspaper articles. By their headlines, I don’t have to guess they like to read about the stuff they have done.

  I thought this kind of shit wasn’t allowed in prison.

  As we walk through the hallways, the orange jumpsuit scratches against my skin with each movement, reminding me that this has become my reality.

  I’m holding sheets and a towel in my hands when some dude grabs the cell bars and studies me, whispering, “Hello.” He barely has any teeth left, his beard is smeared in something white, and he licks his lips, sweeping his gaze over me. “Pretty boy.” A shudder rushes through me, even though I move my focus back to the hall as we continue to walk, keeping my face blank.

  No need for anyone to see the fear nipping my gut.

  When we finally reach one of the cells, he presses the button, and it opens with a loud buzz. “Get inside.” I proceed to do that, and he murmurs for my ears only, “Watch your ass, Brochan. There will be a lot of people who’ll want to grab it.” And with that, he forcefully pushes me inside, locking the door.

  The cell has a toilet on the side, a bed, and yellowed walls. A few square feet in space. Through the bars, I can hear everything happening on the floor and in different cells.

  Cries.

  Murmurs.

  Even the sounds of skin slapping, and since all the cells are singular, it reminds me of someone jacking off.

  Blocking away everything and everyone, I throw the sheets on the bed and kneel on the floor, ready to do push-ups until my arms go numb.

  The guard is right though. In a place like this, I won’t live long if people find out what I was thrown in jail for. At least with workouts, I won’t be the only one harmed.

  I always have to be prepared for battle.

  Oddly enough, nothing prepares me for what comes next.

  * * *

  Sliding my tray along the serving line, I try to hold back the urge to gag, because none of the food looks or smells appealing. The fucking disgusting odor reminds me of someone barfing after a huge hangover.

  The cook plops soup into a bowl and places it on my tray, spilling it a little, and barks, “Next.” I move again, grabbing bread, and accept the pudding from another guy.

  After close examination, I pick water, because their good-for-nothing coffee causes a headache and tastes like acid.

  Spinning around, I search for an empty seat in the busy dining room that buzzes with the sounds of plate clattering, and people chewing and laughing, while others serve them.

  I’m heading to the empty table in the far-right corner when a loud voice bounces off the walls, calling out to me, and everyone halts their movements, listening to the conversation.

  Although I prefer to think of it as a monologue. “New guy. You think you’re too good to dine with us?”

  I ignore him and step forward, but a beefy man blocks my way, crossing his arms and pointing with his chin behind me. I have no desire for this shit, but it seems it’s inevitable in this place. I turn around and face the owner of the voice who happens to be a lean, muscled guy with his hair surprisingly perfectly done and several chains dangling from his neck.

  “Brochan,” I say, and he frowns, motioning with his hand for me to elaborate, so I do, amusing the fucking audience who still gawks at us albeit still eating their food. You can’t really be picky in this place. “My name is Brochan, not new guy.”

  For a moment, something dangerous crosses his face and the energy changes in the room, but then he grins, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I like it. You’re brave. Or stupid, depending how one might look at it.” He points at his table and moves his head, and immediately it’s cleared as he orders, “Sit down.”

  I want to object, but I don’t miss how everyone around here listens to him. I’m not an idiot and know this prison is for serial killers, rapists, and such, so I’m dealing with dangerous men who don’t give a fuck if I live or not. Most here are sentenced to life without parole, so one more killing won’t really change much for them. But without establishing myself as a strong unit, I simply have no chance of surviving. He seems like a man with power here, and angering him gives me no advantage.

  Being bratty enough to have his attention, yes.

  But being so bratty he wants me dead or harmed? Fuck no.

  I still have hope to get the fuck out of this place. Tom promised to look in to a different lawyer, and maybe we will have the chance to appeal if we can prove there was bribery involved. That requires time, but I believe in my friend.

  He always wanted to work as a detective, so he might put all his skills to good use.

  I drop onto the seat, my tray banging on the table. He pushes them both away, and I understand I’ll have to starve today. Unless I rebel, and that’s exactly what I plan to do later.

  He puts his elbows on the table and speaks up. “Why are you here, Brochan?” He emphasizes my name almost in a mocking manner, but I don’t react to the jab. “For the same things most of you are here for, I believe.”

  He laughs, sipping his coffee, and continues to fish for information. “So you killed someone. Do tell.”

  “If you’re so interested, ask the prison guard. You’re friends, I gather.” The guard always hits me on the back enough so I stu
mble forward or he murmurs vile shit to me, claiming that he has a daughter Em’s age, and because of scum like me, he’s afraid for her safety.

  I always stay silent, because at some point, innocent people are tired of defending themselves.

  Although I offer him a way of finding out about my past, I know he won’t do it. A man like him doesn’t appreciate asking a guard for anything.

  And this is my saving grace, because the minute the word rape is uttered here, it’ll be associated with me. I’ll have to fight with a lot of people to stay alive and I’ll end up at the bottom of the food chain.

  I won’t be anyone’s bitch.

  “This attitude can easily be broken,” he warns with a smile, but I just pick up my fork and dig into the food that has seen better days.

  I take a big bite, ignoring the taste and focusing on the fact it’ll give me enough sustenance to survive. “Everything and everyone can be broken.”

  His eyes narrow, but then he extends his hand to me. “Ken. My name is Ken.” Then he lowers his voice an octave. “You better learn to respect me, or I can make your life here a living hell.” He leans back and then clicks his fingers, so I get up and throw the food in the trashcan and go back to doing my daily tasks.

  At night, I continue to work out to always stay in shape, fueled by my desire to get the fuck out of here.

  But in two days, everything changes.

  Island, United States

  August 2019

  Emerald

  The minute the paddle sends him flying to the other side, I rush to the captain’s cabin, ignoring the piercing pain traveling from my ankle to my calf and knee, and don’t even look back to check what happened to Micaden.

  I quickly reach it, and glance around, lost, because I have no fucking clue how anything here operates; I’ve only seen it in movies. Among the various buttons and switches, I find the phone handle, grab it, but when I see its numbers, I don’t know which ones to press.