There is a silence in the mansion.

  It’s one that Ellison can’t quite make sense of himself. It shouldn’t make sense. He is around staff at all times. During his meals, his parties, whenever he is hanging out with Aaron and the other guys; there is always someone nearby. When he attends a car meet, goes to the strip club, or shoots up at one of his friends’ cribs, those are the times when he can finally let loose. It’s just that he can’t stand being at the house most days, although everyone always wants to head over there for his parties. So he does, and when it is loud and bustling and music is blaring, he still hears the silence. It seeps through his ears, spills down his neck and lower back.

  It is Friday night.

  Every night is like Friday night.

  Every day of the week Ellison blows through credit card after credit card. Some of it may or may not consist of company funds. The thing is, it doesn’t matter. It’s not supposed to matter. There are colors in the air, people strewn across the room, streamers hanging from the ceiling. The music. It is so loud. Ellison wanders around in a daze, an electric glow stick wrapped around his blonde hair like a decrepit crown. People are dancing. Swaying. He wants to join in the wind. He kisses a woman, makes love to her in the hallway bathroom, and then proceeds to throw up near the punch bowl. Hands. They reach out to him and whisper, we love you.

  * * * * * * *

  “El?”

  The voice is distant. Foggy.

  ”El? Come to me. Wake up.”

  He has a splitting headache. This will be one nasty hangover, for sure. As he slowly turns his head, he realizes that he is lying on the cold, wooden floor. He blinks at the rug and rolls over on his back. There is a man kneeling in front of him, his black shoes only inches away from Ellison’s face. A hand. Just one. It is pressed against his shoulder.

  Ellison’s bloodshot blue eyes study the bookshelves. The paintings on the wall.

  He is in his father’s office.

  ”El, you with me?”

  The young man gives the staff member a look of disdain. “Who the hell are you?” Even being half drunk, he still can’t put together the man’s features. It’s like solving a puzzle. The pieces are shattered all over, like glass. He blinks again. He doesn’t remember hiring this guy at all. Maybe he is an HR backup.

  The man sighs. “Boy, you’re really out of it.” He extends his arm. “Let me help you up.”

  ”Nah,” Ellison mumbles, reaching over and grabbing at the chair. “I…I…I got it.” The world spins and tilts as he finally stumbles to his feet. His jeans and T-shirt are stained with vomit, and his Adidas sneakers scuff against the rug. “I’m…I’m gonna….gonna lie down.”

  ”Actually, sir,” the man patiently says, “you girlfriend—was it Gabby, I believe—called to confirm that you are heading to your beach house in the Bahamas? She has been calling repeatedly for the past week to request to you to send over money for her plane ticket. She says she plans to meet you in Cooperstown. We already have the jet ready for you. Suitcases were packed this morning as well.”

  Ellison stumbles forward, knocking over a stack of books. They loudly crash to the floor, only worsening his headache. He grimaces. “Can you just s..stop talking for a while?”

  “But what about Gabby?”

  ”Just…wire the money over from my card.” Someone was slamming a mallet against his skull. “I need some aspirin. Can’t we postpone? I’m really not feeling so well.”

  “Unfortunately sir, this is the third time that we’ve had to postpone,” the man politely replies. He smoothes out the wrinkles of his uniform. “Do not worry. I will ensure that the trip will be as comfortable as possible for you. And you can meet with Gabby tomorrow morning once we land in Cooperstown.” He walks past him and opens the door. “Come along, Mr. Hasward. We don’t want to keep the pilot waiting, do we? Besides, the earlier we leave, the less likely we are to beat bad weather. There won’t be a storm till tonight.”

  Ellison gives him a blank stare after glancing down at his stained clothes. “I…I need to shower first, don’t you think?”

  ”Nonsense. We’re on a tight schedule, so you can change when we get there.” The man heads down the hallway. “Come along now.”

  With a heavy sigh, Ellison begins to follow afterwards, before his blue eyes linger around Donovan’s messy desk. He slows his steps.

  Beneath a stack of papers, taped to the right of the computer monitor, is a grainy photograph with the both of them. He couldn’t have been more than five years old, sitting on top of his father’s right shoulder. Both of his front teeth were missing. In his hand was clutched a melted strawberry ice cream cone, with a lopsided party hat placed above his hair. Donovan had the biggest grin in the world, his right muscle flexed, his blue eyes sparkling. Ellison takes the faded picture, and, after looking at it for a long time, tucks it into the back right pocket of his jeans.

  As he wanders through the hallway, he notices that the floors and walls are still a complete mess from last night. Trash litters ground. He opens his mouth to complain, wondering where the hell all the staff went, but he doesn’t have the energy to. He suddenly turns around. The man is smiling. He is opening the front door and bows, extending his arm. Warm, solid sunlight leaks through the stained wooden floor.

  ”After you, Mr. Hasward.”

  * * * * * * *

  Ellison tries to close his eyes.

  The turbulence of the jet engines keeps jolting him awake. His stomach is a landmine—a reminder to never mix Grey Goose and Fireball together again. Once more, Ellison has to reach for the plastic bucket to puke, although there’s nothing else left in his stomach. He can’t even keep water down.

  What did he drink last night?

  ”Here you go.” An ice bag is placed in his hands. The strange man sits across from him. “This ought to help with the nausea some.”

  Ellison glances at the clouds outside. “Looks like a storm is coming.” He taps his fingers against the window. “How far are we again, Mr…uh….what’s your name?”

  “John,” the man quickly responds. He folds his hands across his lap. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I ever introduced myself to you. I work in the kitchen. Scott was out sick, so I am taking over for him, El. I hope that you don’t mind.”

  El. Only my father called me that, Ellison thinks. “Whatever. When do we land?”

  ”The pilot only says we have an hour to go.”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  ”Good. My room needs to be ready.” Another jolt of turbulence rocks the jet, causing Ellison to nearly gag. “Don’t think you’re getting away with leaving the state of my house like that. I expect everyone to do a deep clean today.”

  ”Yes, sir,” John says. He glances at the cockpit. “Excuse me for one second. Are you sure that you don’t want any soda or—”

  ”No,” Ellison snaps. “Why are you so annoying? Get out of my face, won’t you?” He tosses the ice bag at the man. “I don’t need this. Quit bringing me all these random items.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Turn off the lights. I have a migraine.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With a heavy sigh, Ellison turns his head to the side. There is a faint rumbling noise outside, but it oddly brings a deep sensation of fatigue over him as his eyes finally close.

  * * * * * * *

  Something is pressed against his neck.

  It’s cold, round, and cylinder. He awakens with a start. His headache is gone, replaced with a cold sweat that causes his vomit stained clothing to stick to his body. Strands of tangled blonde hair hang over his face. There is a silence. That silence he had heard for weeks and weeks and weeks and —

  It is dark outside. He can hear the sound of the waves outside. Are they at the airport already? He wants to turn his head to see, but the pistol is already pressing deeper into his neck. Slowly, he draws in a deep breath.

  “Stand up.” It is John’s voice. They are in the jet, but it is pitch dark inside. Ellison can’t see a thing. With shaky hands, he unlatches his seatbelt and rises to his feet. Is it just them? His mind is spinning, heart thudding in his chest. His throat is suddenly very, very dry.

  ”Walk. Slowly.”

  Ellison obeys. The barrel of the gun is pressed against the back of his neck. His shoes creak against the rickety steps from the aircraft. They are descending. The ground is very loose. Sand? Gravel? No, it must be sand. In the distance up ahead lies a large bonfire. The flames are so bright that they reveal the shapes of around ten people standing around it. The sound of the ocean crashing is even louder than before. Palm trees sway from high above, in rhythm with the wind. Coconuts hang from far above.

  Every single person is wearing a mask and a black hood. Their painted eyes bore into Ellison’s soul. He hesitates, but the abrupt digging of the pistol keeps him walking. His lips are dry. And he is thirsty. So very thirsty.

  They reach the edge of the enormous fire.

  There it is. That silence.

  John finally steps in front of Ellison. His dark eyes, which were so warm before, are now cold and filled with hatred. He is the only one not wearing a mask. He points the gun sideways directly at the young man’s head.

  “Strip,” he orders.

  Goosebumps appear on Ellison’s skin. His blue eyes dart from each masked person to another. “Look,” he shakily says, “can’t we—”

  ”I said, strip!”

  With his sweaty fingers, Ellison pulls off his T-shirt and unbuttons his jeans. He grabs the photograph from the back pocket and tosses it to the ground, hoping that John will not see it. After removing his underwear and shoes, he stands shivering in front of the circle. John kicks the clothing to the side, where one of the smaller masked individuals comes and drops it in the flames. They quickly become ablaze, the smell of burning cloth in the air.

  “How does it feel, El?” John sneers. “How does it feel, to be left with absolutely nothing? To not have a damn thing left on ya. Huh?”

  A lump rises in the young man’s throat.

  ”Answer me!”

  “I…I don’t understand,” Ellison stammers, holding his hands up. “Please, just tell me what you want? Is it money? I can—”

  ”Oh, you’ve had enough playtime with Daddy’s money. Your father spent his whole life working just for you to squander everything away. Not a cent belongs to you.” John spat in the sand. “You see those people? You owe them what money cannot buy. You owe them your soul. And there’s more of them out there, El. I’ll bring more.”

  “You can’t do this,” Ellison explodes. “Sooner or later, the cops will be looking for me.” His cheeks are red, flushed from the flames.

  A chuckle escapes from John’s mouth. “Are you sure about that? You have no family, no relatives. Only an inheritance that you do not deserve to have. It will be distributed amongst the people who had bent their backs for you. Look at you. No lawyer, no will, no staff. I’ve never met…met someone so poor that all they had was…was money. Only money.”

  The crackling of the flames grow louder.

  Ellison’s breathing becomes stifled. “I…I don’t know what I’ve done to you.” His chest is rising up and down. “I don’t know what.”

  John tilts his head to the side. “Hmm. No, you don’t, I reckon. You don’t see people as, well, you know, people. So why be around them? You assaulted my sister, Sarah. Caused her to break her neck and go into a coma. She passed away last month. I held her in my arms. I’ll never be able to hear her voice,”

  Sand rises in the air, burning Ellison’s eyes.

  “Rings a bell, doesn’t it? You remember Sarah. And you had the chance to make things right,” John continued. “Even if you had done some jail time, I would’ve let you off a bit easier: But that the thing, isn’t it? If you can pay your way out of things, why bother taking accountability in the first place?”

  “I’m…I’m sorry—”

  John laughs so hard water beads in his eyes. He wipes at them with his hands. “That’s a good one.” He turns and gestures to the others, who are moving forward. “Tie him up.”

  “Please,” Ellison begs, as a few rough hands drag him back. His bare feet leave tracks against the sand. “Please.” His blue eyes are wide. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I’m so sorry!” John’s figure grows smaller and smaller. “Don’t leave me here! You can’t leave me!”

  Frayed rope digs into his skin.

  “Don’t leave me here.”

  He tries to fight them off, but there’s too many. Too many gloved hands, yanking his arms back into an uncomfortable position. He kicks up sand with his toes, grunting heavily as his ankles are bound to a bamboo post. The flames roar, heat drying off his skin, but the knots are so tight, he can barely move his limbs. Once they secure the final one, in a single file line, they board the jet. The engines roar to life, the fierce wind from the propellers causing the palm trees to bend forward.

  Don’t leave me, Ellison screams. He screams and screams as the aircraft ascends above in the pitch black sky, amongst the many stars. Jerking rapidly against the ropes, he begins to pull, despite the visible marks on his skin.

  * * * * * * *

  His fists hang loose around the rope.

  Dried scabs settle over his lips. The sun is just starting to rise over the horizon, from where he can get a partial view of the island the vast beach in front of him. Biting his tongue, he eyes a nook in the bamboo and begins frantically rubbing the edge of the rope against it. Sweat drips down his face, gathering at the tip of his nose and chin. After a few hours, the strands begin to fray.

  As the sun rises higher, Ellison’s thirst only worsens. Despite his dizziness, he continues picking at the weak spot with his fingers until one of the ropes finally snaps. He frantically works to free himself, using the last bit of his energy to pry the rope off his arms, then his ankles. He then collapses headfirst in the white sand, gasping heavily for air.

  A hermit crab scuttles by his head.

  “Don’t leave me here,” he weakly whispers.

  After a few moments, he attempts to drag himself across the beach, just to get some much needed relief from the unbearable sun. He notices the photograph and grabs it, which is still halfway stuck into the ground. Crawling on all fours, he finally makes it underneath a large coconut tree. There are about six lying on the ground, their shells covered in sand.

  Clumsily, Ellison grabs a nearby rock and starts bashing into one. All he can think about is water. He raises his blistered hands again, and again, before the shell finally cracks. Something wet sloshes out, and despite the grains of sand stuck into his teeth, Ellison raises it up to his mouth and guzzles the sweet, refreshing liquid that pours down his throat. He eagerly reaches for the next one.

  As he continues to drink, he begins to ponder for a moment. If only he knew where this place was. He’d set out a signal fire, that is, if he could figure out how to start one. Someone would have to fly nearby eventually, right? He’ll need to gather as much wood as possible. He winces in pain as he massages the angry marks on his body from the rope.

  Once his thirst is satiated, his bare feet leaves marks around their split shells. He approaches the ocean, the calm waves crashing against the beach. Beyond this area is a dense populated wood, mixed with plenty of palm trees. Up ahead lies the coral reefs, where thick white sea foam has gathered.

  Ellison drops to his knees near the shoreline. His voice is gone, but it’s not like he’ll need it anyways. Wet sand collects around his pale legs and arms. He gazes at the photo in his hands, his matted hair clinging to his face.

  His blue eyes are slightly wet.