Blood. Everywhere. So much blood.
My hands were stained. The red liquid dripped from them as I backed away, shaking my head back and forth in the process.
No.
My lips refused to speak the word, but it repeated over and over in my mind.
I slipped, landing on my backside as I stepped backwards. My left foot got tangled in the chain that had been wrapped around my neck not all that long ago.
Blood.
A high-pitched scream bubbled forth from my throbbing throat.
Gasping, I rocked back and forth. My back hit the wall behind me, creating soft thuds with each motion. It did little to help my erratic heartbeat. I felt like I was about to die.
It’d be so much simpler if that were the case.
Instead, I fought for each breath that left my lungs. The few tasks that some wannabe trainee therapist I had met at the hospital weren't any help.
Breathing in and out was a waste of time.
Pulling my shirt collar, one that was already loose and not even touching my neck, did nothing to help. I still felt like I was choking. Either it was from the smell of blood as it clogged my airways, or from the invisible rope that I had grown so used to being tied around my neck.
My pills.
Where were they? Had I packed them in my bag that the police had given me? Or did I purposely leave them behind, knowing they would be useless either way?
Did it even matter?
Either I’d die from a panic attack or I’d die by the hands of a monster who was just as evil and twisted as myself.
Finally, after what felt like hours, my breaths evened out to less choppy lungfuls. My heart slowed more to a normal rhythm. In the end, I was left feeling more drained than I ever thought possible.
Panic attacks were officially my best friend. Had been for years. Nothing ever stopped them—not even being tied up and taken ten ways to hell.
When I was halfway sure that my legs could hold my weight, I pushed myself up off the floor. My butt was numb, but otherwise I was steadier.
Finding the bathroom, which was conveniently across from a bedroom, I refused to look in the mirror as I washed the sweat and tears from my face.
The cold water woke me up, giving me just enough of a boost to finish making it through the rest of the night.
Hopefully.
I only had ten weeks to go.
Ten long, lonely weeks before I could let the devil call me home.
Emery
Time passed. Each minute felt more like an hour. An hour felt like a week. I had no clue what time it was. The sun had long since risen, the house quiet. Every once in a while, I’d hear a car or truck pass by, shaking the couch I was curled up on.
I hadn’t moved much. I saw no point in it. Staying in this one spot kept my body from screaming at me. Every part of me hurt, and I should have been used to it by now.
It didn’t matter if it was because of another’s hand on my body, or from my own doing. I was in agony inside and out. And this time, it was so much more than just the pain of some bruising or fractures. My heart was broken, cracked wide open.
A knock, three quick, heavy raps against the door, caused me to jerk upright. A million and one worries raced through my head.
Had they found me? Was I going to die in a puddle of my own piss? Was I going to forever be tortured because of what I’d done?
