Page 5 of To Have and to Hold

The blood on my lips had dried and cracked, leaving a stiff residue on my chin. No matter how many times I tried to rub them off, the scabs would cling. Sweat salted my wounds, stinging me alert, and I remained curled up in the corner, wide awake.

I started again.

The room was 12 x 12, all concrete, the floor covered in a kind of grit that chafed the backs of my legs. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, but it did not sway. Motionless, like me. No windows. Stale, clotted air cloaked this space, bringing with it the scent of damp, rusted metal. A single door stood in front of me, the only decoration in this bare prison, no handle on my side. It was gray, shining metal, and brand new compared to the walls, which had some sort of stain raining down from the ceiling and marking the cement. In the dim light, it was a sepia color. Mold? Leaking rust from pipes hidden in the ceiling? Old blood?

—no. Stop there.

A single twin mattress lay on the floor to my left, stained the same color but brightened with fresh splotches of red. A metal chair was tipped over in the middle of the room, poking near my toes. A gallon of fruit punch sat beside it, unopened. A metal bucket was beside that. Empty, though soon I’d have no choice but to use it but I couldn’t

—move on.

My injuries. Superficial. And most gained from being in here. My nails and cuticles bled with my efforts to find some kind of weakness in my captivity. I dug into any hole or indentation I could find, picked at it, pulled at the steel frames of the door, but everything was solid. The flimsy fabric containing the innards of the mattress was torn, frantic shapes ripped into the cotton by teeth and nails. No springs or metal could be found—it was all loose polyester fiber, stuffing I used to shape throw pillows and reform couch cushions while coming up with decoration plans.

The chair couldn’t be broken, its shining four pillars now smeared with the salt of sweat and blood. It could barely be dented.

I’ll just toss the chair at his head as soon as he enters. Buy myself enough time to get around and dash for the stairs and pray the door at the top isn’t locked. Because I’m in the basement. Or that the front door out of this house isn’t also fortified in some way.

And if I only managed to piss him off?

He’ll kill me.

There was no room for rashness. He’d obviously planned this, and now I had to think this through, too. If I thought to maim him and escape, then I’d better fucking maim him and escape.

I moved my attention to the dangling bulb with a pull chain beside it. Standing on the chair, I inspected the chain to see if it could be broken and used as a garrote if he came back. I gave a few test pulls, noticing its flimsiness but also terrified of screwing up and shattering the only source of light I had.

If it came down to it, though, I’d break the bulb, use the shards and chain. But I…right now I couldn’t handle being trapped in the dark.

I used up more endless moments of yanking and stomping and throwing the chair. Contained crashes, bangs, and booms hollered within these four walls. I pounded at the ceiling but it was so thick it deadened every contact I had. My knuckles scraped and screamed, but a person had to be up there. Anybody could hear me at a lucky time. A visitor, a patrol cop. Somebody had to be looking for me.

Was it morning yet?

My jaw ached, pulsed, on the right side where the iron grate of the stove hit me. My molars on the same side were chipped and loosened. I had to be careful not to rub my tongue against them too hard. It was especially difficult not to do that when I screamed. Worse when my screams turned into raw hiccups.

Cries were soundless in here. It was like they bounced off the cement and echoed back to me with no chance of penetration into the outside world.

It felt…it felt like I’d been buried.

Don’t panic. Start the inventory again.

The room was small. 12 x 12, all concrete—

Clomps sounded above. I jerked up reflexively, tracking the sounds, my arms wrapping tighter around my legs.

I hadn’t heard him since he’d tossed me in here, my shoulders smacking against the opposite side, the grit flaying my skin as I slid down. He’d blindfolded me as soon as we stopped (an hour later? Two?), the nauseating scent of exhaust turning into the smell of fresh, dewy air as he pulled me out of the van and covered my eyes with his dry, calloused hand until he could shove the pillowcase over my head.

I’d already been gagged at that point. I cried through the cotton.

He’d dragged me along (outside?) and smacked something open—a door—which rammed against a wall with his force. The sound triggered me, awakened the urge to escape, and I flailed against his strength, elbows, knees, nails, but all I hit was slippery material, soft fabric. He’d covered all the exposed parts of himself.

I was feral, then incapacitated when he pinned my arms to my side with his girth. We stumbled down wooden, creaking stairs, my face hot, wet with rasping breaths, until it went cool with the brush of spider legs when he tore the case off.

My hair was tangled, tossed in front of my face and itching my cheeks, but I glanced everywhere as he held onto one of my arms to keep me in place. The loud screech of furniture being moved sounded with his grunts.

Dark. Basement. Shelves, clutter, tools, no—weapons. My weapons. A screwdriver was laid out on a workbench to my left.

He held me but was focused on moving a large wooden piece away from the wall. I could twist maybe, tear out of his grip long enough to…

GRAB IT.