Once released from some of the bindings, I took a moment’s grace to weep.
But only a moment.
“You have work to do,” I sniped, amping myself up like I used to do when I’d been on the softball team in high school.
Grinding my teeth together, I unfastened his fly. Retching when the stench of fish from unwashed skin and blood hit me right in the face, I gagged throughout my preparations.
With a pocket of space made, I turned the small-shafted blade toward his crotch.
And suddenly, it felt like I was no longer in the room as I watched a stranger’s hand palpate the area where hip met thigh while another swiped the blade in a smooth motion.
At this distance, I could appreciate the steady rush of blood that greeted the steel as those alien hands used an inadequate scalpel to sever the femoral artery. Brute force slashed that dull blade through flesh, sinew, and muscle, putting an end to this animal’s existence in an arcing arterial spurt.
And that was the moment my mind decided to recollect itself.
No more fugue state for me.
The first thing I noticed was that my fingers looked as if I’d dipped them in hot sauce. And the projecting spatter would’ve given Pinhead a boner.
The little bit of blood I’d seen on Stan earlier wasnothingin comparison to this tidal wave.
But I shoved that hysterical thought aside.
I didn’t have time for hysteria.
Only, my brain didn’t agree.
“Oh, fuck,” I warbled, refusing to cry until I had time. Until I could break down. Until I was safe.
Until, God help me, I was sitting on Stan’s lap as he held me and I could let my feelings loose—one of those anger. Because I was angry at him.
So fucking angry.
Something that only grew as I struggled with my bindings and that one dull blade.
Exhaustion hit by the time I’d freed myself, enough that I felt lightheaded.
“This isn’t over, Kitty,” I growled, hoping to energize myself.
It worked.
A little.
But I was dazed, in pain, and undoubtedly concussed, so it took me too long to realize he had a cell phone.
A cell phone that he’d used to contactStan.
As I forced myself to remain calm, hysteria settled at the back of my throat, threatening to suffocate me—I needed oxygen for my brain to work, though, so I regulated my breathing.
“If I call him, he’ll come.”
But was that the wisest path to take?
“Should I try to get out on my own or wait for him?”
I glanced at the window and saw the bars that’d prevent my freedom. There was a dubious-smelling bathroom but it had no door—just a curtain.
I could lock the door that my captorhadn’t. I could get out. But I was tired. So tired.
