The Captor's Pawn

Taken

When Salamo heard the knock, he instinctively reached for the pistol hidden in the drawer, and now the gun rested behind him.

"Surprise!" She sported a wide smile, her expression causing his face, now marked by a fresh scar, to crease.

As she enveloped him in a tight hug, Salamo discreetly moved the gun behind her and concealed it behind his back when they broke the embrace.

"Fay..." he gathered his words. "What are.... you? How did you..."

Fay looked like a mannequin breath to life. Salamo told his only friend, Charles that she was a replica of perfection, if there was such. The lines that coutured her face were only awarded to goddesses. A demi-god, he would call her, but people, she was as ordinary as Sunday.

How her skin coped with the harshness of her reality was a mystery to Salamo.

Perhaps, it knew she was born for the bright city lights and camera flashes and not for tilling farm soil under raging sun or using canta to trim palm fronds to make brooms.

Seeing Fay before his door felt like a dream, but the yellow gown--one of his many gifts--complemented her in such a way Salamo had never seen before.

What had happened to her once-bouffant hair, which she sometimes styled in cornrows? Why had she cut it short and curled the edges with gel?

The cloud around his brain disappeared like smoke and his hand left the knob and guided her inside. He looked left and right at the empty corridor before closing the door and locking it, deftly cornering the pistol out of sight.

The cold vicinity of the sized room nursed Fay's skin and her gaze brushed around until she saw the humming ac. She admired the different patterns of wallpaper that beautified the wall before dropping her small bag on a black couch that faced a TV. The only other couch was beside the window, as though Salamo was on a constant lookout.

"Fay...how did you get here?"

"Charles brought me." She sat on the bed, "Do you have something cold to drink?"

"Charles? What Charles?"

"What other Charles?" "Where is he?" Salamo proceeded to the door but Fay said, "He just dropped me, directed me to your apartment and drove away. He said you were more likely to be pissed than pleased." her face dropped, tendering her already tender features. "Or are you not happy to see me?"

"No, not that... I just saw you last week..."

She interjected, "And?"

He ate his words, worrying more about the gun behind him. "Don't act like a visitor," He forced a smile. "Look at the fridge there, if you want something cold, get it." he indicated with his head.

She rolled her eyes and sighed.

The fridge hissed, and bottles danced. Beer, soft drinks, chocolates etc packed on different levels. She picked a perspirated red drink she didn't recognize. Chapman, it was called.

"It is as if you are not happy to see me." She said, wondering why he held one hand behind.

His brows flew up, "It is not that. Did you say Charles brought you here?" Salamo was yet to wrap his head around it. Why would Charles do that?

She poised the chilled drink on her lips and she didn't answer until she dropped the bottle; the content was almost empty.

"Yes, why do you have that look on your face?" She drank the remaining content. He looked shocked at first, but now he looked outright nervous. And what was that scar on his face? A closer look and she saw it was still a wound.