Over the Cliff, Nearby the Ocean

Have you ever wondered where will be you waking on the next morning? It could be on your four poster bed next to someone you love. It could be on an economy seat on a long-haul flight to your hometown. Have you ever wondered and be certain, would you be waking up the next day?

I opened my eyes. My eyelids were heavy, so was my head. I wandered my sight around with my heavy drowsy sight. There was nobody around this spacious living room. This was unexpected—to be waking up inside a small cottage nearby the cliff—or ocean. I could tell by the nautical smell that smeared from the opened glass door. In fact, the half of the living room was made of glass. So, I was right—the house was built over the cliff and nearby the ocean.
My brain was too tired to process the questions that I threw from the back of my head to myself. How could I end up being here? The last time I remembered, I was holding a gun and pointing it to someone. That someone tilted my hand before I pulled the trigger and let the bullet cut through the flesh of another person. Not just another person. He was Demian. His body abruptly collapsed to the floor and his blood soaked the dust underneath him. The last thing I remembered before it was dark, was my screaming and the hard hit that rushed my blood from the head.
There he was sitting before me—that someone I knew. He folded his arm in front of his steady chest. I saw those mahogany stares were studying me. Secretly, I studied him under my stare too; strong jawline, thick eyebrows, sharp nose, average lips, shaved chestnut hair and those mahogany gleam in his eyes. The man looked like nothing but normal in fit black t-shirt and faded pair of jeans.
I stared at him long enough, before something put me on halt. Before something drove a chill down to my spine. His stare was never be the same as it was getting more and more intense. I avoid them and looked down on to my lap, just to realize that he had secured my right wrist with a handcuff strapped to the leg of the sofa. When I was about to goggle at him in protest, he was unloading my bag—my bag, the only possession of mine that valued so much.
He shook the unzipped bag in the air and items started to fall. Notes, books, spare outfits and underwear were scrambling down to the floor. From the pile of my items, he took up a few to the top of the table. He presented me my Blackberry, passport, sound recorder, my ID and those notes.
“I chose not to bother your belongings before you are awake. Because I need some accuracy.” He said as he read my ID. “The Jakarta Daily…”
There was a ball of choke inside my throat as he pinched the corner of his eyes. “Is that a daily paper?”
I gave him nothing but a quick nod.
“I guess, now, we both know how accuracy and precise honesty is important to us, right, Miss Autumn?” he spelled my name carefully. “That is a very rare name for someone like you.”
This time, I did give him nothing in response. Although I took a silent note, why does he mean—someone like me?
He held out my sound recorder and tried to press the play button. Thankfully, I had the media card remove. I noticed disappointment. “I should have known from the beginning. No tourist would not be possessing this old fashion item on their vacation.”
He put it down and then proceeded to peel the passport cover of mine. He was smirking as he held out the green-colored passport and waved it few inches from my face.
“Indonesian.” He smiled. “Yet, I agreed when you told me that you were all coming from Manila. Your accent, it is quite a bit of somewhat similar. Oh that's right, you are all working for that goddamn newspaper.”
I remained passive at him while he was muttering out the evidence.
“This must be hard for you to answer me—“ 
I was breathing air of relief when I heard the sound of whistling pot invaded the dead air. He was moving out of his chair and walked to the pantry nearby. I could not afford to see what his doing but I could catch the sound of clink.
“I hope you are a tea person,” he said as he brought two of steamy cup with a piece of paper attached to short thread down to the table. He took a sip and his stare was still locking to my eyes, even though I had refused. “Where were we?” he asked. “—oh yeah, this must be hard to answer me by now. But I need you to comply with me, because I like everything to be quick and naked—“
Before he managed to end what he was about to say, I pooled my saliva and spit on his face. Luckily, the drip went down into his beverages. He closed his eyes from the insult, then he began to walk closer to me whilst wiping the liquid out of his face and shirt.
“What was that?” he addressed me in such calm and manner. I froze, but I still dare to look up and see him in the eyes. He bended down, so his body height adjusted fairly to my sitting position, so he could see me face to face. I realized I had done a mistake because his stare was burning wild at me.
“Is there anything you would like to say?”
I glared at him, “I do not know whom do you work for but I will let you know that you have been stupid enough to take those kind of orders. You are not more than just a dog, and it would be my pleasure to spit on your face once more.”
“Go ahead and spit.” He dared me, as he put his face closer and straight to mine. Without further thinking, I gathered my saliva again before but, he stroked me hard with a hot and hard surface of the mug over my cheek. The boiling beverage was spilling all over me—drenching into my skins and burning hard. My cheek infuriated from the punch and the smolder outer of the mug. Tears were watering my eyes as he tipped me by my chin.
“That was not necessary.” His sounds grew fiercer and he hit me again on the cheek this time with his ball of fist, hard enough to throw my head in reflect. He cupped my cheek and moved my face straight to his once more time. His thumb stroked me. It was so brief, and then he punched me hard again on my cheek, realizing a gasp of air from my mouth. I was already panting.
“Listen carefully, Missy.” He jagged my hair and tilted my face upward whilst forcing me to listen to his angry whisper. “I do not hesitate to treat you like another guy who stepped onto my feet, and they were all dead ungracefully.”
“Bring it.” I dared and chuckled lightly at him.
“Bring it, I will.”
He put his knees against boundless mine, and he began to slide them apart. My heart was racing fast—thinking about what would he do with that when he lifted his foot. I was starting to scream on the top of my lungs when he kicked me hard on my pelvic bone. My body was leaping forward and fell off from the sofa. Only my restrained wrist that kept me from jumping off further. I crawled before him in pain and disgust. I was still crying out from his assault and writhing my aching limbs. I balled a fist with my hand and started punching it to the tile, as if it would distract me from all the pain. All I see was his bare feet on the floor and I really wanted to more than stepping on them. I wanted to break them.
I glanced up again at him.
That time I know, he meant everything he said.


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