For footsteps.
For the lock.
For Gabriel changing his mind and coming back.
Nothing.
Still I wait. One minute. Then another. My cheek throbs. My jaw aches. My wrists feel flayed where the rope dug in.
I wait until my bladder starts screaming.
Only then do I move.
I rock the chair once.
Twice.
The legs scrape loudly against the floor and I freeze, heart jumping into my throat.
Nothing.
Again.
Harder this time.
The chair jerks sideways. I throw my weight with it and crash to the floor hard enough to knock the breath clean out of me. Pain shoots through my shoulder, my hip, my face.
I bite it back.
I lie there for one second, stunned, then roll and drag the broken edge of the chair leg toward my bound wrists.
Come on.
Come on.
The wood bites. The rope strains. My hands shake. I keep sawing.
Because no one is coming.
And if I want out, it’s going to be the way it always is.
Alone.
The rope finally gives.
It snaps loose all at once, and my arms jerk forward so hard pain rips through my shoulders. A raw sound tears out of me before I can stop it. My hands are useless for a second, pins and needles exploding through my fingers, my wrists burning where the fibers skinned them open.
I don’t move.
I stay on the floor beside the broken chair, cheek pressed to cold tile, breathing like I’ve run for miles.
The apartment is too quiet now.
My heartbeat still hasn’t realized he’s gone.
I peel the rope off my wrists with clumsy fingers and roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. My face throbs in ugly, pulsing waves. My mouth tastes like blood. Every inch of me feels wrung out, like whatever was keeping me upright before has finally burned through.
I should get up.
