Chains in the Deep - Chapter 7

I lay on my back on the rocking deck of the motor-sailing boat, coughing up the seawater that had flooded my lungs, my chest splitting with pain.

Coughing and laughing at the same time, I couldn’t control myself-choking again on the salty water, utterly disheveled, yet the manic laughter simply wouldn’t stop.

“See… you just couldn’t bring yourself to kill me, could you…”

He braced himself above me, every inch of him soaked, water streaming from his hair, his chest heaving as he gulped down air.

“Are you insane?!” he roared, fury at its peak, slamming his fist hard onto the deck beside me!

Wood chips flew.

I saw daylight again.

Pity that his momentary terror, and the anger now twisted across his face, were never truly for me.

“Alistair,” I lifted my feeble hand, trying to encircle his neck, “my need for control is just that strong. Even here, even now, I can still… control you.”

His face turned to iron, and he shoved my hand away, standing up in a rush. In urgent, icy Spanish, he shouted a few words at the boatman.

The diesel engine roared to life; the boat swung around and began its return.

Seagulls started circling overhead, the blurred coastline emerging on the horizon. By the time we reached shore, our drenched clothes and hair had almost dried in the sea breeze.

Kind-hearted Marcus Cole was waiting on the shore with a few local police officers. Seeing me return alive, disbelief was written all over his face.

The local police seemed to know Marcus well. One officer laughed, punching Marcus on the shoulder, said a few words in Spanish, then waved his companions off.

Later, Marcus told me what the policeman had said: “Hey, man, you’ve been writing too many mystery novels, haven’t you? Look at that couple-still madly in love. Just went out to see the sunrise, had a little accident. Husband saved his wife, and they’re both back safe and sound!”

Yes. In everyone’s eyes, we were the loving couple who ran into a bit of trouble at sea at dawn. The heroic husband rescued his wife, and together they returned unscathed.

Who could have guessed the wife had just survived a brush with death? That I had used the craziest means to win against him, yet lost so utterly in the end.

That day, Alistair was furious beyond measure-but there was nothing he could do to me.

That night, I acted as if nothing had happened: cheerfully eating dinner, going to the shore for shell-hunting, even joining the locals around the bonfire to dance. I wandered aimlessly along the beach, howling at the sea, sobbing until I was spent, then burst into manic laughter once more.

He could only follow me like a silent shadow, never leaving my side, watching over me with the utmost caution-afraid I’d do something self-destructive the next instant, terrified the heart in my chest-and the one far away-would suddenly stop beating.

He was the loyal guardian of his lover’s relics. And I-a bona fide lunatic.

In the past, it was I who schemed to watch him, to spy on him, to chase his shadow wherever he went.

Now, the roles were reversed. It was his turn to trail after me with painstaking care.

His eyes no longer looked dead-they burned with hatred for me. His gaze was like the sea in a midnight storm: dark, brooding, seething with waves of devouring rage.

Late at night, back in the hotel room, he stared at me in the darkness, silent, seemingly calm.

The next moment, he suddenly lunged like a wild beast, clamping my wrists, choking my throat, slamming me down hard onto the bed!

His hot, salt-tinged breath lashed against my ear, his voice icy as death, charged with a destructive force: “You like using drugs, don’t you? Tonight I’ll show you… real skill.”

Outside, the rhythm of the tide seemed endless. That night was the pinnacle of frenzy and exhilaration, senses reeling, a kind of madness that said: let me die after this.

All the murderous intent that couldn’t be unleashed was finally transformed into another kind of primal violence.

Thinking on it, perhaps lust is simply the oldest mutation of the urge to kill. With the weapon bestowed by the Creator, torturing the other’s body again and again, branding it with your mark.

He had always been known for his restraint and propriety-when had he ever been this wild? In our twelve years of marriage, this was a first.

And this… wasn’t so bad, after all?