Rory’s voice is the thing I grasp onto. His words from this morning at the gym.
Telling me to stay calm. Always stay calm and think about your next move. He told me I would make a mistake if I let panic win, and he was right.
I seize a mouthful of air and drown out the noise in front of me.
Duct tape.
Mack told me once about the duct tape. How if you bring both of your arms down with enough force, it will break on its own.
She showed me, and she made it look easy. And it’s never as easy when you’re doing it yourself.
With my arms behind the chair, it’s a strain to get the momentum I need. But while I’m shifting around, there is a physical incentive pressing against my calf. My sheath is still where I left it.
Either Alexander didn’t notice it, or he already removed the knife.
I won’t know for sure until I can reach for it.
Time is running out.
His grunting is louder, and his violence is too.
Katie isn’t moving. She isn’t breathing. Her face is ashy and wrong. One of Alexander’s hands is still wrapped around her throat, the other clapped over her mouth and nose.
Nothing else exists to him outside the clutch of his violent fantasy.
I scream at him and he bashes her face into her floor. Over and over again. Fucking her while blood spatters across the room.
It’s too late.
I’m too fucking late.
Katie falls limp against the floor, and Alexander collapses on top of her, groaning out his release with one final thrust into her dead body.
My heart beats faster and a rush of rage spiked with adrenaline floods my veins. I overextend my arms and thrust down as hard as I can.
It has to be now.
He has to die now.
The duct tape breaks with an audible sound, and Alexander is moving.
Crawling towards me- covered in Katie’s blood- with an expression on his face that I won’t soon forget.
I’m next.
He’s going to do me next.
My fingers shake as I reach for the sheath and yank on the Velcro strap. I’m stumbling, shaking, grasping… and it’s real. The handle is real, and it’s in my palm.
Alexander reaches out for me when I bring the blade up and plunge it into his chest.
My fist squeezes around the wood and recoils, yanking it from his flesh. He retreats and touches the place where I stabbed him. The place where blood seeps from his wound and drips onto the floor below.
A series of emotions flashes through his eyes.
Disbelief. Shock. Hate. And then rage.
I have wounded him, but it isn’t enough.
