Story Time: Untitled #2

My ears were still ringing when I came back.  The ringing, then the pain.  I was still in the chair.   My shoulder hurt.  My head was pounding.  The only good thing about my situation was the fact I was alone.  I tried the ties on my arms, they were still bound.  I pulled as hard as my body would allow.  I’d gained weight.  I’d become more than I was.  My wrists strained and something popped.  Caked up with sweat and blood, the dislocation of some joint in my hand was just what my hand needed to come loose.  I was already in so much pain, this injury was just a drop in  the bucket.  I looked at my hand, grabbed the dislocated thumb, and pulled.  With a pop, and a sharp stab of pain, I was able to wiggle my fingers again.  There was still a throb of pain there, but I’d recover.  I had to stifle the urge to laugh.  My sister said that would work, and I didn’t believe her.  Before I had time to get over it though I remembered where I was and got to working on the other restraints.

“The most important thing”  She looked at me, light brown eyes were filled with concern.  I did my best to pay attention.  She continued.  “Make them think you are still under their control.  Don’t let them know you’re loose, until its too late for them to do anything about it.”  She was really against me doing this.  I didn’t know why.  “You must wait for the most opportune time to enlighten your captures of the change in situation.”  She looked at the rest of the room.  “This might be when they walk in the room, when they’re close enough to grab, or when they turn their back on you.”

The click of the knob rang out like a shotgun in the silence of the room.  I waited behind the door as it swung open.  He walked into the room backwards.  He must have opened it with his hip.  His hands were full of something, food? torture devices?  I didn’t have time to look at it when I slammed my palm in his face.  His head was jammed back and I had to fight the feelings of guilt when I heard his nose break with a sickly pop.  This man had tortured me quite violently, but I still didn’t like the idea of  killing another human being.  He was still breathing when I knelt over him.  He was completely out, but alive.  It turned out he was holding some scalpels and other sharp nasty utensils.  I caught the door before it closed then reached down and grabbed the scalpel.  My tormentor didn’t have a side arm, so I would have to make do with this.

My existence for the past couple days had been a 10 by 10 steel box with rusty green paint peeling off the walls.  The hallway outside my room was just as grungy.  It was still metal with few spots showing some water leaks and rust.  It was probably a bad thing I was barefoot right now. I walked carefully down the wall of the hallway trying to be as quiet as possible.  There was a voice coming around the corner.  It sounded like a sports cast.  I think I might have a chance to get out of here. I wanted to peek around the corner.  I’m not going to lie, I was scared.  If they noticed me right away I was good as captured.  Even one guy, with training, a gun perhaps.  I’d be outmatched.  The glow of the TV gave me the impression it was on the opposite wall so I waited for it to get loud.  “Jameson gets the breakaway, he’s all alone!”  I took my chances and glanced around the corner.  There was no one there.  Before I could breathe a sigh of relief I looked around the room.  This was a lobby with a kitchen tucked away in the opposite corner.  I could hear something in the kitchen and realized someone was there.  Without thinking, I darted out of the hallway and across the room to hide behind the couch.  I got down just in time to hear the footsteps come out of the kitchen.  I closed my eyes, hoping, praying I wasn’t noticed.

The couch took on the weight of the guard and billowed out as he settled in.  I could see the back of his head above me.  I was lucky.  I held the scalpel in my hand and rose behind the man.  Before he noticed me I had wrapped my left arm around his neck and squeezed.  He tried to struggle but I put the scalpel in front of his eyes.  “Shh… ”   I said.  He held still but still made choking noises from time to time.  He was tense and strong enough to make me panic as he almost slipped out of my arm.  I squeezed and he stopped holding still.  I was supposed to jam the scalpel into his face.  I was supposed to act on the threat I’d conveyed.  I failed.  I didn’t want to do it.  I just couldn’t bring myself to harm him with a lethal blow.  He knocked the blade from my hand as we struggled.  I held on for dear life as he started to rise from the couch.  He was big and pulled me along with him.   His plate fell from his lap and clattered on the floor.   There was a sense of panic to him.  I was surprised that my dirty, weakened body was intimidating at all.  He turned and we fell into the TV together.  Something burned into my side and with a wince I suddenly let go of his neck.  He struggled away from me as I reached to feel something sticking in my lower back.   I looked up to see him still trying to breathe on the ground next to me.  He was clutching his neck with his hands and he’d gone purple.  I sat up as best I could and instinctively tried to help him.  He clutched at my chest, weak fingers tore at me and slipped off my greasy skin.  With the bulging eyes of someone never expecting to die, his hand fell and his eyes rolled back.  He had choked, on his sandwich.