Lionel? Dread? It could be either of them.
I attempt to belt out another scream, hoping the Uber driver will at least hear the muffled cry, but only moments later, I hear what sounds like a car door opening, and I’m thrown inside. I land uncomfortably on my tied hands, my wrists twinging with pain and my shoulders straining.
The distinct fabric rubs against my hands, and I instantly recognize it as felt.
They threw me inside a fucking trunk.
Their hand dives into each of my coat pockets, finding my rolled-up charger in one and my phone in the other, slipping them out.
“No, no, no, no!” I try to shout, the words muffled, but the trunk slams shut with a finality that has me choking on my tongue. I’m lockedinside the cramped space with hardly any room for movement.
My chest heaves far too quickly, but it only makes it more suffocating with the sack over my head. I’m freaking the fuck out, and I need to calm myself down. IknowI need to, but it feels like an impossible feat right now.
The engine turns, and the car revs to life, vibrating beneath me. Then, I’m lurching forward as they take off, nothing to catch me from rolling straight onto my face.
I wiggle onto my back again, continuing to strain for air and sucking the fabric into my mouth with every inhale. It only serves to freak me out more, and if I don’t get this bag off my head soon, I’ll find myself too far gone in this panic attack and pass out. Which would be the worst thing ever when time is of the fucking essence.
My first instinct is to rub my wrists together, testing just how tightly they’re bound. The plastic scrapes against my skin painfully, but I hardly notice.
I don’t have much room, but after some maneuvering, I’m able to roll myself onto my upper back and lift my hips enough to stretch my arms as far down as I can.
Sweat forms along my hairline as I struggle to get them looped beneath my butt. Whimpers fall from my lips, frustration and panic mixing into a dangerous storm. I’m on the verge of tears as I slowly and painfully strain my shoulders. Instant relief floods my chest the moment I wiggle my ass through my arms just enough to lower my hips and curl my knees to my forehead.
It’s awkward as I bring them up my thighs, only to struggle to free my feet in the confined space. At one point, I bash my knee into my nose in the process, but the pain is a dull throb beneath the sharp panic slicing into my stomach.
After another minute of struggle, I finally loop my arms out from my feet, breathlessly grunting out a victorious sound.
The first thing I do is tear the hood off my head and then quickly rip the tape off my mouth before I can overthink it. There's no time to be gentle, and it only prolongs the pain anyway. I stifle an agonized groan and inhale deeply the second it’s torn from my skin. For a second, all I can do is lie there and fill my lungs with oxygen, consumed by the sharp burn radiating from my face.
Part of me is grateful for it, though, because it cuts through the worstof my panic. It's still there, but it’s no longer reaching its tipping point. I waste no more time, biting at the zip tie around my wrists. But it’s too tight, and all I accomplish is pinching my own skin with my teeth more than the plastic.
Fuck!
I squeeze my eyes shut, racking my brain to remember how the fuck to break zip ties. The only method that keeps coming to mind is raising my arms above my head and bringing them down quickly, but I don’t have the goddamn room for that.
Shoelaces!
I don’t even remember where the fuck I learned it from, but I’m pretty sure I can use them to create enough friction to burn through the plastic.
Curling my knees to my chest once more, I untie my laces from both boots, the tremors in my hands making my movements sloppy and uncoordinated. It takes several attempts to get one lace between my wrists, cursing beneath my breath all the while. Once it’s finally looped through, I make quick work of tying it with the lace on my other boot, knotting them as tightly as I can.
Then, I strain my wrists toward my face and bear down my feet to create tension before bicycling my legs back and forth. Sweat coats my hairline and lower back, and the position is awkward and uncomfortable as hell, but thankfully, it doesn’t take long to snap the zip ties.
“Fuck yes,” I whisper, another shot of relief keeping me from spiraling completely.
I immediately untie the knot and retie my boots correctly in case I need to run. I’ll be fucking damned if I get free, only to fucking face-plant and ruin my chances of escape.
Once I’m finished, I move on to figuring out how the hell to get this trunk open.
I don’t know what kind of car this is, but it doesn’t seem terribly old. I know my sedan has a glow-in-the-dark safety release, but I see nothing.
I feel around the soft felt surface above me, desperately searching for the lever, but with no luck.
“Shit,” I mutter, scouring around more frantically.
There has to be something, but I’m still too panicky and erratic. Why the fuck can’t I find it?
Finally, my fingers brush across what feels like a T-shape divot. My brows pinch, trying to process what I’m feeling until it dawns on me.
