After reading Stolen: A Letter to My Captor, I was interested in the idea of writing a letter to a captor, I've been playing/watching Far Cry 3 and I wanted to see what would happen if the guy in the story was Vaas. I still don't know where I'd go with this, but it's nice to just let loose some ideas at times.

Changed

I missed the sound of the sea. It was sort of funny, really, back when I was in Rook Island, the sound of waves crashing across the beach had been so constant that you had taught yourself to tune it out.

Now, back in the city, with nothing but the sound of cars and the hustle and bustle of people as they made their way to wherever they're going, you were beginning to realize that you hated city noises.

They didn't mean anything.

Just people noises.

Only a few weeks ago, every sound meant the difference between life and death.

Failure to hear the snap of a twig or the rustle of a leaf could end with a gun pointed at my face or sharp claws of some jungle animal raking against my flesh.

There, the noises meant something. To hear them meant that I was alive, to hear them meant that I had the chance to stay alive.

Now...listening to the sounds of those cars honking wildly at each other, as if it could make the traffic flow quicker or the occasional high-pitched laugh of some girl passing by, I cursed my heightened senses.

In the jungle, it meant survival. But here, it meant that I was probably not going to get some sleep for the night.

That's all right, I didn't want to sleep anyway.

I sat up in bed, ridding myself of the sheets and reached for the glass of water that was on my bedside table.
I wasn't thirsty but I started drinking anyway. Then I stopped when I realized that I was reverting back to old habits.

In Rook Island, water was vital. Fresh water even more so. Whenever I found a spring or a river that looked even semi-clean, I drank your fill and then some. When I couldn't drink anymore, I filled my bottles with the stuff.

Water had meant survival back then, and I could still remember the surge of wild relief that I felt every time I saw a spring.

Now, all I had to do was walk down to kitchen, open the tap and voila! Fresh water.

God, it all felt so pointless.

I rubbed my face with my hands. Even that ordinary, everyday thing of getting water from a tap seemed so alien to me.

Rook Island had changed me, for better or worse.

But that wasn't true was it? It wasn't just Rook Island; it was the people there.

Well...one person in particular.

Vaas.
Just the thought of him was enough to send a chill down my

spine.
Insane, violent, psychotic, hyped-up on drugs. And the only person who would understand what I was feeling right now.

Vaas Montenegro was a part of Rook Island, as much a part of it as the trees, the animals, the ziplines, the guns and drugs and the...
And the freedom.

Despite the shootings, the murders and all the savages that had lived there, Rook Island represented a wild sort of freedom.
The freedom to do whatever I wanted: to leap from a cliff straight into the river below or the zipline down a mountain into the waiting arms of a dozen or so henchmen just waiting to gun me down.

I didn't want to think about it too much because it frightened me.

Did I honestly want to go down this lane? Did I want to admit to myself that I missed Rook Island? Missed...Vaas?

Emotions swirled inside my chest like a tempest.

It wasn't right to want him like this. Wasn't right to...to...
I closed my eyes. Breathed deeply. No, my will not go there.

Unable to stand the company of my thoughts any longer, I fired up my laptop and went on the internet.

But I found myself at a loss when I clicked at the address bar. Where would I go?

Facebook, where a thousand notifications probably waited for me, from friends who just wanted in on the scoop?

Goodreads, where I could talk to random strangers about books I don't even have the interest to read anymore?

where-

Without another word, I closed my browser and opened Microsoft Word.

My psychiatrist had told me that writing about my experience might help me get over it.

This probably not the sort of 'writing' that she would approve of.

But I couldn't help myself, my fingers began to fly across the keyboard. I wrote feverishly, not caring that I needed to sleep or that it was 3 AM in the morning.

I just wrote.

As I wrote, I remembered.