I’m wearing one of my short-sleeved black t-shirts, a thin, black cotton cardigan, and black chinos. My feet are bare. The black heels I had been wearing are God knows where. For a millisecond, I mourn the gorgeous black Sarah Flint suede stilettos that I was so fond of. That mother fucker not only assaulted and kidnapped me but stripped me of my favorite heels.He is so dead.
Ok, Kat, back to our current predicament. Where were we? Oh, that’s right—you are utterly and completely fucked.
I limp around the small circular area at the bottom of the well, my breath hitching due to the pain, and the panic slowly rising in my chest. I am trapped down here. I look up and see the clouds above heavy with rain and about to split open.
Shit, shit, shit.I need to conserve my energy. I take a shaky seat against a portion of the stone wall and curl my legs up to my body. Wrapping my thin cardigan around my torso, I tell myselfto think and not panic. I force myself to close my eyes and take three deep, steadying breaths.
Calmer now, I open my eyes. They fall upon the uneven, ancient looking stones around me. Some of them appear to be quite jagged, and different sizes, jutting out at angles. I had rock climbed back in high school a few times, and the idea of trying to free climb out of this literal hellhole crosses through my mind. However, I remember my ankle which throbs again unbidden with a burst of pain. I look down at my mangled finger, which oddly enough feels more numb than painful. That probably isn’t a good sign.
Option one is to sit here and wait for hypothermia to set in or for Eastman to come back and finish me off. Option two is to at least try to climb out and risk a probably fatal fall, yes, but at least it would be action. At least it would be doing something. At least I would betryingto save myself. Movement is life, and sitting here at the bottom of an ancient well waiting for a serial killer’s imminent return is almost surely death.Death.I ponder it for a moment. An absolute escape.Absolute. And clarity slowly washes over me.I don’t want to die.Certainly not down here, alone.
I want to live. And a fiery resolve replaces the clarity. I will try to get free.
With a great heave of breath, I use the stones behind me to lift myself into a standing position. Gingerly, I turn to face the stone curvature and place my hand on the half inch of exposed rock above my head. I lift my uninjured leg up first and turn it out fully from the hip, placing it on the edge of a stone. This move results in most of my body weight falling on my hurt ankle and it’s all I can do not to cry out with the pain. I place my other hand on a different stone above me and try to pull my body upward to relieve the weight falling on my bad leg. This sort ofworks. I’m at least up off the ground now, if even just a half foot or so.
My icy fingers are already beginning to shake. I lift a cold hand to another stone a few feet above the one I’m currently clinging to. I can feel a thin layer of mossy scum on this one. I shift my hand to the right searching for one with less moss. My fingers find purchase and I repeat the same action. Again, I must quickly lift my other arm and reach above me, to take the weight off my ruined ankle. My broken finger catches on one of the stones, forcing it backward even more. A guttural scream leaves my throat and echoes tormentingly all around me. I clutch my hand to my chest and teeter dangerously. Quickly, I replant my hand on the edge of a stone to stabilize myself before I fall. My head spins, breathless with the effort and pain of it all.
I look down and see that I am several feet off the ground now.Ok, Kat. See? You’ve got this. Keep going. Still shaking, I continue climbing, the fingers on my non-fucked hand grasping at a stone I thought jutted out farther than it did. My fingernails slide and rip along the edge, threatening to tear off. I quickly lift my good leg to try and stay on the wall, but without having time to carefully look, my foot lands upon a mossy stone, and slides off.
With a terrible lurch in my stomach, I realize I am falling backward. Before I can even let out a cry, my tailbone slams hard onto the wet cold earth. I wretch forward with a groan as white-hot bolts of pain rocket up my back and neck and into my head.Fuck!I let out a low wail.
It’s getting darker by the minute, and soon I won’t be able to see at all. Aside from that, I don’t think my throbbing ankle and finger are up for another attempt. Not to mention the fresh, pounding pain in my tailbone and spine.
“You are going to die down here,” a silky soft voice whispers in my head.
Thinking now of conserving my energy and body heat, I curl up against the stone curve of the well. I tuck my legs tightly against my core as best I can with the pain from my ankle, head, and back radiating through me in blinding waves.Maybe I should pray, I think.Isn’t that what people do in situations like these?Not that people were often in situations like this.
Dreamily, I think of the woods behind Pearson House. I see the wraparound porch, my porch, overlooking the dense trees. I can smell the pines, hear the wind and the rain moving through them.Maybe I’ll just close my eyes for a while.
____________________
ZAYN
God, I fucking hate him.
I watch him, peering through the rusted spikes of the old wrought iron gate surrounding the back property of Bronwin Home. He stretches and takes a long pull from his flask.
I mean, I’m sure there was a time that I once loved him. Maybe as a newborn. But since I’ve been cognizant enough to make my own decisions, I’ve despised the man.
Mom strides by him, her head bent down low. A wicker basket is clutched tight in the crook of her arm. She’d just finished her daily ritual of gathering fresh flowers from the garden for the kitchen table. I’ve lost track at this point of the number of vases he’s shattered in his rages. And they were getting more frequent.
As mom passes him, he darts his arm out to grab her. He drags her body to him, puts his face in hers. His large hand crushes the roses she collected. His lips curl as he says something to her, but I stand too far away to make it out.Mom juts her chin upward, meeting his gaze.She had thrown out the remainder of his vodka this morning. Something she did whenever she got brave and wanted to stem the flow of his rage. He had probably discovered his stash was gone.
He slaps her across the face. Mom’s whole head whips sideways, blood gleaming on her lip. I straighten up, nearly calling out. My chest rises and falls hard. My fist clenching at my side. I’m getting bigger by the day, growing in both strength and height. Soon I’ll be eye level with him.
Dad’s hands seize mom by the upper arms and shake her. Her head jerks back and forth like a rag doll. The rest of the flowers fall utterly discarded. Like trash on a sidewalk.
The basket falls to the ground. Dad reaches out and grabs at one of her breasts, twisting it, hard. Mom’s pained cry echoes across the yard. Then his hands fly to her neck, wrap around her throat, and start to squeeze.
My eyes flit to the fallen roses on the ground, then back up to his hands on her throat. And like a rubber band snapping under pressure, I break. I’m finally done. Done with allowing it to continue.
I just… snap. Releasing a snarl from deep within my chest, I hurtle towards them. My growl morphs into a gruff cry, as I reach them. I thrust my hands out and shove him back from Mom, hard. He swings at me, but I duck. I ball my fist and slam it into his head. Dad’s body flies backward and lands with a thud on the rain-damp earth.
“Zayn!” Mom’s startled cry rings out beside me.
Adrenaline courses through my veins, blood pounding in my ears. I turn to face my father. He remains still, unmoving on the ground.
“Get UP!” I bellow, balling my hand into a fist again, readying myself for an advance.
