Paradise Abductions

By Mia Rodriguez

Time is running out for the abducted Monica/Frida. She's about to be forced into an even more horrible nightmare. Every day is a challenge to stay alive, but now the challenge has escalated into trying to find a way out of her most feared fate. All she has are her wits to light the path to survival--that and her special friendship with a boy. Will time be her friend or her enemy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mia Rodriguez
• Release date: May 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301304691

Book preview

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. Use 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.

Chapter 2

The family-wives make sure I clean up correctly before I go to the destiny-bride shack--what I call the slave quarters. There are three wives, and they live in separate bedrooms in the huge house. We're supposed to be bonding since I'm about to enter the family, but I'd rather finish fast and get out of the home that I'll be forced to share with the smelly creep in just a short time from now.

After they tell me I did a great job, all except Stacy who barks that my homemaking skills are deplorable, I set out to the place I live. What Stacy told me doesn't bother me since I hate having to make a home for the Mister and myself. She's mean and nasty to me. I guess it's because she feels I'm replacing her with the Mister. She's the youngest and the last bride he's taken. Much of his attention falls on her.

Jealousy.

It's one of the ugliest emotions.

I don't understand why she wants his attentions. I would rather him not know I'm alive. Just the thought of him placing his lips on me--uuuuuuuck!!!!!! Fortunately, the rules are that the men can't touch us romantically until after marriage. With all the dog crap I've placed in his beverages, this is a relief of epic proportions.

I shut out all the vicious words Stacy has tried to sting me with--What does he see in you? You're nothing. You're ugly. You need plastic surgery. You've got the personality of a wet rag. You never talk. Why does he need another wife--especially one like you?

I respond back very simply. Why should I care what you think of me? I say nonchalantly as I turn my back on her.

This usually infuriates her more but shuts her up. Once she had started cursing at me, and she was put in isolation for a few days for disrespecting the home. Isolation is a dark room in a remote corner of Paradise Village. I wouldn't wish that horrible place on anybody. I've been there once when I had blurted that I didn't want to get married. After being in the room with very little light for a few days, I decided never again. I'd use my head more than my mouth. Stacy had been there a few times since she has trouble controlling her words.

Even with the way she acts towards me, I can't muster the energy to despise her. Believe it or not I don't hate her. I don't even dislike her.

I just feel sorry for her.

I feel sorry for any girl here who believes the total garbage we're constantly fed. I feel sorry for the girls who don't know they are being brainwashed. If Stacy feels that the Mister is some sort of a prize, then I must pity her more than dislike her. That's for sure.

As I walk briskly through the center of Paradise Village, the Elders don't like to see us move leisurely, I don't notice the beauty of the place. While leafy trees adorn the pathways and vibrant flowers grow from the sides of the dirt roads, all I see is ugliness everywhere. I don't even turn to look at the food warehouse or the clothes ordering shop as I move past them. A long time ago, I stopped paying attention to the semi-dense jungle of the thick trees, vines, and bushes that surround Paradise Village.

When I arrive in the vicinity of the slave quarters--a huge, crumbling shack with rows and rows of bunks where the unmarried girls sleep in, I head towards it. Rushing past an outhouse, a clothesline, and water basins where we do laundry, scrubbing clothes until our hands are raw and bleeding, I swing the tattered door open. We have no electricity, no running water, and no conveniences of any kind. It can be easy to think that the men are heroes when they take us out of this place to marry us and put us in decent homes. I, however, would much rather stay here in this awful hole than live in luxury with them.

How was your dinner? asks Helga as I enter the shack, her eyes stern and dissecting me. Her bunk is by the door so that she can check up on us. The oil lamp flickers next to her as she keeps eyeing me with suspicious eyes.

Fine, I say, meeting her hard gaze.

Helga is a servant-girl, and she'll never marry. When she was a child, a dog bit her face. No amount of plastic surgery could help her, but she proved her usefulness to the Elders by demonstrating her iron hand towards the rest of the girls. They put her in charge of us and every year, her heart turns more and more into stone. Her only pleasure in life seems to be torturing us any way she can. She's the oldest female at Paradise Village at thirty-three years of age, and she doesn't let us forget why she's still alive.

Monica, you'd better tell me the truth about dinner, she hisses. She especially hates me because I don't cower down to her like the rest of the girls do.

I am.

You're destiny-husband better not give me any complaints about you, she snaps.

He won't.

Get to your bunk and start your prayers, she commands.

I step past the other praying girls to my apace. For the moment, no one is on the top bunk and I'm blissfully by myself in my corner. I kneel down and supposedly start my prayers to the Head Master. We attend church for an hour every day to hear about the Great Master and what he wants from us.

I know TOTAL GARBAGE when I hear it.

Instead of repeating the prayer they taught us, I abruptly shove it to the side. My mouth would