Blind Visionary [John Murphy x OC; Becca's Island]

Chapter 5

 "You have a lot of nerve," I tell John. He doesn't seem to care, sitting where I've tied him, visibly aching as he shifts positions in the creaking wooden chair. He must not be very determined because he's only been sitting there for about eight hours. Hell, I've sat on the hard floor in the corner in the same crouched position for nearly twelve when the drones were flying above my dugout.

"Why's that - because I'm asking questions? Because I'm curious? Because I'd like to know just a little bit about the person who has apparently claimed me as their slave?"

"Shut up," I spit back, disgusted by his comment. "I'm no monster. You're the one who wandered onto my territory. You're the one with the chip."

"What the hell, you're not serious. Are you?" John scoffs, releasing a short breath through his thin nose as he shakes his head in amusement. It's not the first time he's acted surprised. That's right - acted. I'm not buying his charade. "Unbelievable."

"That's right - you are," I snap back. "I can't be sure, so I have to assume the worst."

He rolls his eyes and I'm captivated by their ability to shift from deep brown to emerald as the fire dances across their glossy surface.

Eyes like a snake.

He is not to be trusted.

"Alright," he smirks, eyebrows perched high above his defeated face. "Then kill me. Because I'd rather be dead than stuck down here with you."

I stop. His voice is shaken as he speaks harsh words through his tight lips, pressed into an quivering line. I study his eyes. I search between the brown and the green, looking for any sign of truth. They're too dark, too deep. And his expression is too smug to trust.

"Pretend all you want, John. Only time will tell."

I back away, offering him a sly smirk before turning back to tend the fire and stir the stew. It has developed a wonderful color and a mouthwatering scent. I don't care if the meat isn't yet cooked. I can't wait another second. I keep my eating utensils in a basket I weaved years ago - one of many that I've slowly acquired from long days and sleepless nights. Weaving the green and orange leaves in thin, intricate threads is the only reason I'm still somewhat sane. For the short time that I'm weaving, the baskets give me a sense of purpose. My one goal in that moment isn't just to survive - it's to complete the project. The baskets sit in piles around the dim room like pots of colorful flowers.

I dig through the large basket until I find a bowl. This one is also woven from leaves that I had gathered from the line of trees on the beach east of my dugout. Those trees carry the largest, brightest, thickest leaves. Perfect for sturdy baskets, cups, and bowls. I walk over to the pot of soup and scoop out a large serving, careful not to burn my skin in the boiling broth.

After a gentle blow of cool air I watch the steaming soup as I bring it to my lips, closing my eyes as the savory juice hits my dry tongue, exploding into a thousand flavors, all distinct yet complementary. I let out an exhale of satisfaction and enjoy the warming sensation that travels down my throat and into my empty stomach.

After downing half the bowl, I carefully walk the remaining soup over to John who sits calmly, chin down, looking up at me with the most indignant expression I've ever seen.

"Don't tease me," he mutters between clenched teeth.

"I'm not," I retaliate, my voice a bit louder than intended. "Here."

I guide the bowl to his lips. At first, he doesn't open his mouth. He keeps his lips tightly locked in a thin line. He doesn't blink as he shoots a glare directly into my eyes. I want to turn away with every cell of my being, but I must stand my ground. This is my home. He is the one tied up.

"Five seconds," I warn him. He doesn't budge. The wheels in his mind are moving and I don't like it.

"Four."

Nothing.

"Three. Two."

I stand still. The bowl sits under his nose. The stew is hot, steaming in front of him. But he doesn't look at it. He only looks at me.

"One." I pull back the bowl and hold it close to my body. I wait for him to blink but soon realize I will be standing here all night. He is a statue, except for his mouth which curls ever so slightly into a twisted smirk, barely visible.

"If you'd please just kill me now and save me the days of suffering, I'd appreciate it."

His words haunt me.

Because his dry plead for death proves he's human.

"Well," he questions, one eyebrow raised at me. "Will you?"