It’s enough.
I’ve never given up on anything in my entire life. I made it through the death of my mother and my best friend. I’ve been beaten, shot, and stabbed. I’ve been through pain. This is so much worse, but I’m not a punk-ass bitch. I need to shake this shit off and fuckingtry.
I beat myself up for almost giving up, but I can harp on that later. Right now, I need to think. How am I going to get out of here?
The blood dripping from my missing finger is distracting, the repetitive noise making my head throb as much as hunger and thirst.
“Fucking stop,” I grumble, my head thumping in time of the droplets. I can’t think while?—
Wait…
I wiggle my hand back and forth, blood from various cuts on my forearms dripping down past my sore wrists. It’s not enough to get my hand through, but…it gives me an idea. I’ll have to hurt myself further, but it will be worth it. I’ll patch myself up when I’m out of here.
Gritting my teeth—which is painful in itself—I rub my left wrist along the cuffs, hard. A cry leaves my lips, but I don’t give up. I keep grinding into the metal attached to my wrist until the skin breaks. Blood flows, but not enough, so I keep going, hoping I don’t go deep enough to make me fucking bleed out.
The soft trickle of blood wets my palm, collecting in my cupped hand. I maneuver my fingers toward the bone in my thumb, getting it as slick as possible.
My heart hammers, knowing what I’m about to do, but I can’t stop. This will be the only way to free myself and get the upper hand on my captors.
I pull in several deep breaths, panting as I gear myself up for more pain. In and out, in and out, in and out, in and?—
A scream threatens to tear from my throat as I pull up hard, my slick hand catching on the cuff. The metal has no give and my bone wants me to stop, but I keep pulling, keep tugging, keep?—
“Fuck!” I shout when I feel the bone in my thumb pop. My vision whites out and I slump to the side, my eyes drooping from the unimaginable pain. Nothing could have prepared me for how much it’ll fuckinghurtto dislocate my own bone.
Footsteps sound over me and I shake off the pain as I pull again, whimpering as the skin tears. But my hand glides through the cuff, free for the first time in probably a week.
I bring my hand around to my front, cradling it against my belly. Blood collects on my shirt, wetting my front. The sharp tang of copper settles on my tongue, making my head spin.
Once I’ve caught my breath, I take the empty cuff and push the shackle through the hole, hoping to use the end as a weapon of sorts.
I reach down and make quick work of the rope tied around my ankles, freeing them from their confinement. Glad those fuckers used rope instead of cuffs on my ankles or I’d be fucked.
I’ll have to work fast. When one of my captors comes down, I have to attack. If I wait, I die. Well, I still might die, but at least I’ll die on my feet, not tied to a fucking chair.
Standing, I sway before I limp toward the stairs, biting my lip against the pain. Maskless twisted one of my ankles until I thought my skin would tear, but he didn’t break the bone. It still hurts like a bitch. Putting weight on it is almost blinding. Still, I hobble to the stairs and press my back against one of the beams. When I look up, I see that I can’t be detected from my hiding spot.
Even though I know I need to remain alert and clear mymind so I can think of my next move, I close my eyes, letting a soft cry push past my lips. This has to end. I hope I get out of here alive, but if not, I’ll give these assholes something to remember me by.
Just as I’m straightening from the beam and wiping my wet hands on dry parts of my clothes, the door creaks open and footsteps descend the stairs.
On high alert, I adjust the cuff in my hand, getting ready for the fight of my life.
Luck is on my side.
The masked man that comes down the stairs isn’t paying attention to his surroundings, his fingers moving quickly as he texts or surfs the internet or whatever the fuck he’s doing on his phone.
Before he realizes I’m not tied down anymore, I’m on him, taking the cuff and bringing it down over and over onto his neck. Blood spurts back at me and he loses his balance, dropping down to one knee. I don’t let up, bringing down the cuff over and over. I’m not sure how deep I get with its blunt tip, but I don’t care. Eventually, I’ll get through to?—
“Brett!” the man shouts before he falls forward, his legs twitching as I keep stabbing. Blood and tissue splatter across my hand as I stab and stab and stab.
A loud shout has me whirling around as the other masked man hits the landing and runs at me full tilt. I only have a moment to brace myself before he barrels me over. I use our momentum to toss him off, leaving him sprawled on his back.
Adrenaline gives me fight, but not enough to mask the fucking agony that tackle sent through my body. I lie there, trying to catch my breath and will my limbs to move, but pain has my brain clouded, unable to receive the frantic signals I give it.
Please. Please move. I can’t die like this.
The man is quick on his feet, able to get his legs under him and rush me again. I’m forced onto my back, with the man straddling me. Like Nico taught me, I hold my arms up to my face, making the man’s punches connect with my forearms while I try to figure out my next move.
