Fear explodes out of me in all directions. Kicking, biting, screaming. My nails rake down the side of his face as my body bows, avoiding his flailing hands.
I claw at the mattress for purchase, kicking my legs out behind me, one heel catching the side of his face. I tumble over the far edge, falling on the floor, scrambling to get upright, to run, to get the fuck away.
My feet finally work out how to stand and I launch at the window, beating against the glass, trying to get it open, not caring if I smash it, not caring if I get cut, just desperate to get free.
“Stop it, I’m not going to hurt you,” he roars, but the words send my panic skyrocketing, so much adrenaline flooding my system that I half wonder if a bag has split and I’m soaring on the first hit of methamphetamine.
The latch gives and I slam the heel of my palm on the sash, forcing it outwards, ajar, despite being painted shut at least three times over.
My torso is outside, my legs kicking, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the ground outside, when his large hands clamp onto my hips, dragging me painfully over the thick ledge.
The skirt of my dress rucks up my thighs and I grab at the window frame, clinging on for dear life as he changes position, slinging one arm around my waist, the hard muscles of his torso flush against my back. He braces one gigantic foot against the wall, using his weight to pull me free, haul me away from the window, sprawling backwards on the floor when my grip fails.
Although I fall on top of him, there’s no cushioning. He’s as solid as granite. His enormous arms wrap around me, clamp my waist and chest like a vice, my upper limbs caught inside its rigidity. His breath is loud in my ear, as he throws his leg over the two of mine, pinning my lower body immobile.
The breaths no longer sound like exertion. They’re heavy with something else, something I don’t want to name. Another part of him is hardening against the back of my thigh, where my hitched skirt exposes my leg.
Stray hairs blow across my face with each exhalation, clinging to the sweat from my exertions.
“Calm the fuck down. I won’t hurt you,” he says, making my fear spike ever higher. I snap at his arms, bending my neck at an extreme angle as I try to get enough purchase to bite.
But it’s impossible. The most successful of my efforts won’t raise more than a bruise.
I’m exhausted, shaking, crying, panting for breath as his arm moves, slipping under my legs and bending them at the knee. He folds me like a parcel in his embrace as he stands, then unceremoniously dumps me on the bed.
I feel as small and useless as a plastic doll. When I try to get free again, he holds me flat on the mattress with one hand, like he’s skewering a bug, while he reaches for the string, snapping a length off between his teeth.
He ties my wrists together before binding them to the headboard. With one hand covering my mouth, he sits back, briefly resting.
My teeth continue to snap, trying to eat his palm, but it’s too flat against my face to get a good hold. He leans off the side of the bed, still keeping his hand in place, snagging something from the floor.
A sock, which might have started clean but has picked up a wealth of dust and dirt from lying on the floor. He stuffs it into my mouth, his rough fingertips grazing my lips and my tongue, scratching against my hard palate. Then he covers my mouth again with his hand while my stomach decides this is a great time to retch and the rest of my body mounts an instant war because it doesn’t want to die.
Then he pulls his hand away, sliding off the mattress as he unrolls more twine, wrapping it around my ankles while I try to smash my heels into his face.
“Jesus Christ, woman. Would you stop?” He gives up on the string, using the weight of his body to force my legs still again. “Time out, okay?”
After a minute or longer, he rolls off me, onto his back, staring at the mould patterned ceiling. “What part of ‘I’m not going to hurt you’ don’t you understand?”
I glare at him as his eyes turn to rest on my face, a half-smile hovering around his mouth.
“You and your appalling driving totally fucked my plans, and I haven’t killed you yet. Take a breath, yeah?”
He lies beside me, relaxing his long body as best he’s able on the far-too-short-for-him bed, staring out the window.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” he whispers as a fantail hovers around the overgrowth near the window, bobbing up and down in lazy swoops as it chases a moth.
There’s something in his tone that makes me look again. Instead of the decaying plasterboard, tattered wallpaper, and the dirt-encrusted glass of the window, I see the clear sky outside, the lush foliage so eager to make this gently rotting house its new playground.
A cicada’s strident call dominates, but beneath it is a melody of small creatures. Insects ticking against the glass, birds chirping to each other, the rustle of leaves as a sparrow catapults from a branch.
Sunlight captures the lazy dance of dust motes, natures glitter. It lands on the wide planes of Malakai’s face, highlighting the thrust of his brow, catching on the palest strands of his hair, turning them golden.
An ache clutches my chest in a tight fist. I want this same freedom for my son.
Then he rolls off the bed, standing for a minute facing away from me, hands on hips. I hitch myself up a little, loosening the bonds around my wrists so they’re still tight but no longer digging into my flesh. With each breath, the tangles inside my head relax, giving me space to think.
Malakai is large, and his sudden appearance in my car was frightening, but he also seems calm, even reasonable. Escaping prison is certainly a crime, but that doesn’t mean I should fear him with every fibre of my being.
