Page 10 of Love You To Pieces

No. This isn’t getting me anywhere.

“Okay, okay,” I murmur. “Okay, I just need to calm down, and⁠—”

Screaming makes me flinch and causes my heart to speed up, nearly beating out of my chest. I glance up at the rusty door, both wanting to see what’s going on and very happy I can’t.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say the screaming sounds a lot like Scotty.

But I know better, at least that’s what I’m telling myself, and I refuse to let myself freak out again. Bracing the balls of my feet against the floor, I peer upward through the dim lighting that my eyes are finally starting to adjust to.

A meat hook.

I’m tied to a fucking meat hook.

Again I have to swallow my panic. Which is becoming harder and harder to do when all of this is pointing towards a very bad situation that seems conjured right out of some backwoods slasher movie.

I work to ignore the screaming, and though it takes a few tries, I manage to push up enough for the rope around my wrists to scoot up the hook; its metal is thankfully smooth and cleaner than I would’ve expected. I suck in a breath through gritted teeth when my strength gives out and I slam back down, but I refuse to let myself give up.

Not with the chorus of Scotty’s screams pushing me onward. Again I go up on the balls of my feet, this time feeling like I’m standing on my toes, and I breathe out quick, soft pleas to whatever deity might be listening for this to just—please—work⁠—

I fall to my knees with a gasp on the hard concrete the instant after my hands come free, a grateful sob leaving me even as I cradle my hands to my chest. My whole body shakes from exertion, and I allow myself a few moments to pant for air.

But I can’t stay here.

Struggling to my feet, I jerk the now-loose ropes off my hands, leaving my wrists chafed and my palms bleeding, and stagger around the small, dirty room for anything I might’ve missed. Stupidly, I reach for the door, only to jerk my hand back with a small sound of disapproval at the action.

Yeah, Sadie-Rae, I mentally chastise. Just stroll right through. Let everyone know you’re awake and free.

Something dully shining on a nearby barrel catches the light and my attention. I turn to find a couple of tools scattered across the top of the old, worn surface. None of them are in great shape, but I snatch the rusty screwdriver from the surface anyway. It’s better than nothing, I tell myself, as my eyes lock on the large vent on the left side of the room with its grate already half rusted through.

Visions of tetanus dance through my head as I crouch down in front of it with shaking hands and barely withheld panic. But I suppose contracting tetanus would be better than the alternative of probable death.

“I can always get vaccinated,” I whisper, my hands curling around the grate and jerking outward. The remains of it crumble in my hands, so I shift my plan of attack to just smacking at the loose, rusted pieces until the hole is big enough for me to squeeze through.

Another scream makes me pause. This time I can hear the screams forming words that burrow into my ears to implant themselves in my brain, promising to leave nightmares if I manage to get out of this alive.

“Oh, god, please! Please stop! Please, not again! I’ll do anything! Please—” The words delivered in Scotty’s high-pitched panic send a shudder down my spine, and before I can think about it, I thrust myself into the small vent between rooms.

The passage is short, thankfully, and light peeks through an equally rusted grate on the other side. I knock the pieces away just as I did before, with hands that won’t stop shaking no matter how many deep breaths I take. Placing my palms on the floor while trying not to get cut, I Hilll my way to the next room, a mirror of the one I woke up in, even finding another meat hook and more stains that are either rust or blood.

I refuse to look at them as blood.

As long as I pretend the concrete floor is covered in rusty paint that’s splashed up one wall, I’m somewhat okay. Hell, who am I kidding? I’ll never be okay again, and the mere notion of it makes me scoff silently with some kind of macabre humor.

There’s nothing useful here either, though, and frustration builds alongside the fear in my chest. The noises do seem more muted, and Scotty’s screams are difficult to make out, muffled like there’s a wall between us.

And hell, I can’t keep playing musical rooms…right?

Right. Sure.

“You have to rip off the band-aid,” I whisper to myself, my eyes locked on the half-ajar door. At least in this room, I won’t have to actually open the door, if the one in the room before was even unlocked, and hopefully I can make this as quiet as possible.

Then, once I’m out of this room, I just have to make it past whoever is out there fucking up Scotty, probably others, and with my current luck, a lake of fucking fire.

But sure. I’ve got this.

Inner sarcasm, I figure, is better than the panic threatening to overwhelm me. I’ve never considered myself a particularly brave person, and if I had my way, I’d be crying on the floor while waiting for someone to come save me. But without a knight in shining armor at the ready, or even just a platoon of police officers with shotguns at the ready, I’m not left with many options.

Slowly, ever so slowly, and with my heart firmly lodged in my throat, I pull the door open a bit more with shaking fingers. With every inch I send up another prayer that it doesn’t creak, and the god of greased hinges must be paying attention, because I get it open enough that I can shimmy through without it making a sound.