You don’t dispose of a person with no idea what you’re talking about and who the worst thing they’ve done is not recycle a glass bottle occasionally.
I don’t want to bedisposedof.
And whatever the man in the boilersuit thinks is fun, I am definitely not up for.
Listening motionless as they tear my little apartment up looking for something I don’t think exists, a plan forms in my head. Outlines and fuzz at first, but then clearer.
I have to get away. If I can…
“Come and look at this,” the boilersuit man says.
The other man hesitates, but I remain absolutely still apart from my deep, slow breathing.Go,I will him.Look how unconscious I am. I’m not a threat. I’m just a silly girl.
“What is it?” My guard’s voice has moved.
“Proof.”
“That’s the mother, isn’t it?” They sound like they’re in the kitchen where I have a pile of post and a pinboard with recipes and some pictures of us all having dinner on my eighteenth birthday.
I have one chance.
I slowly lift my head. My hair sticks to the floor where the blood has congealed. But the lounge is empty. They’re both in the kitchen, it seems, riffling through my possessions and chatting in Italian.
My arms are wobbly as I push myself into a seated position, then onto my feet. I move swiftly and quietly, my heart thudding loud into my ransacked bedroom.
I open the window silently, then wipe my bloody hair over the edge, as though I climbed out. Then I look around and toss out a hardback book I’ve been meaning to read. It lands with a thud.
“What was that?” comes a voice from the kitchen.
Breath held, I slip across the room, silently open the wardrobe door and step into the confusion of dresses. I pull the door almost closed—as it was when I found it—and slowly, so slowly push backwards, further into the wardrobe.
Rapid footsteps echo.
“Check on the girl?—”
“Shit!”
I can’t disappear into a different realm, but I can hide in the ridiculous space behind the pipes that run up the building. They create a tall, slim gap I’ve cursed so many times for being useless for anything except hiding a body. And right now, I could kiss the builder who installed these fitted wardrobes for his irritating laziness of putting those pipes there.
Because as I wedge myself into the cubby hole, there’s a torrent of unknown words that are obviously rude, and my bedroom door bangs back.
“Where is she?”
I breathe shallow and slow, my heart vibrating.
“Get her.”
I stare at the wall in the darkness and promise myself if they find me, this time I’ll fight. No freezing up. I’ll scratch and play dirty.
“She went out the window.”
My stillness is probably some ideal meditative state. I don’t think I could move without breaking.
More swearing. Italian. They’re definitely Italian.
“That’s a small window.”
“She’s tiny. Little girl climbed out. Look at the blood.”
