Page 12 of Love You To Pieces

“Scotty?” I gasp, hands raised like I could possibly help him. As if I’m going to somehow reattach his arm and eye, wave my magic screwdriver, and get us out of here.

And from the way his remaining eye snaps open for him to look at me, he expects it too. The desperation on his face is replaced with hope and relief, but that only makes the guilt in my stomach feed into my nausea faster.

“S-Sadie…” he whimpers. “What’s going on?” His eye is glazed over with shock, though tears continue to roll down his chubby, round cheeks. “Why is this happening?” He tries to move his remaining arm, only to make a sound of confusion when the other just…isn’t there. “H-he took my arm…” the man whimpers. “He took my arm after he took Tyler’s leg. Sadie I…I don’t know…”

He trails off, but it’s probably for the best. My fingers work at the straps holding him to the table, looking for a way to undo them, only to find that every single one is snapped in place by a lock that requires a combination.

“Scotty! Hey!” I snap my fingers in front of his face, though I have to do it twice for the sound to actually make his eye open again. “Scotty, I-I need a combination for these locks.”

He just stares at me like I’ve asked him to recite the first forty digits of pi.

“Scotty, I can’t help you if you don’t⁠—”

“N-no. No!” He thrashes suddenly, his remaining eye shining with terror. “No! Sadie, you have to get me out! Get me out!” His screaming gets louder, more shrill, until I’m looking in panic at the closed door leading to the stairs.

“I will, okay?!” I gasp finally, and as a last resort, I press my hand to his mouth, fingers trembling against his bloody face. I cannot let myself look at the sawed-off stump of his arm, or the empty socket where his eye used to be. Both wounds still bleed sluggishly, and some distant part of me wonders just how much blood he can lose before he passes out.

Or dies.

“I need you to be quiet,” I whisper slowly, making eye contact—well, as much as I can— as I say it. “I’m going to try to find the others, okay?”

Scotty doesn’t nod. But when I feel his mouth working against my hand, I cautiously let go of his mouth.

“Tyler is—I saw him…” He tries to turn his head, can’t, and gasps in a shaky breath. “The room to my right. O-on the far wall, I heard him screaming af-after⁠—”

“Okay.” His earlier sentiment about Tyler getting his leg getting chopped off plays in my head, and I hope to God that was just a fever dream. Tyler’s muscle could be useful, and more than anything…I just don’t want to be alone.

“I’ll come back for you.”

The words have him nearly hysterical again, but I can’t stop to do anything. Part of me, the guilty part, wants to make an attempt to give him some kind of medical care, but frankly, I wouldn’t know where to start.

So I have to leave him.

I have no choice.

I pause to swap out my screwdriver for one of the wicked looking, serrated knives on the workbench that’s still coated in blood, and I do my best to ignore the way it feels slippery against my fingers. With the screwdriver shoved in my back pocket, I walk quickly to the side of the large space that Scotty tried to gesture to.

At least, I hope this is the right way.

Three doors are lined up on the wall, all just as rusted and disgusting as the one I came out of. It hits me that the rooms are basically used as holding cells, and the thought does nothing to help my nausea or my panic.

But I really don’t want to be alone.

With careful movements and gritted teeth I pull open the first door just enough that the light from the main space illuminates the cell as I peer inside.

Empty.

Somehow, that sends a whoosh of relief from my lungs, as if I expected one of the men who brought us here to be hiding in the cell, waiting for me to be stupid enough to open it.

Though with the way my night—day?—is going, I can’t exactly write off the possibility.

I close it, though I don’t push the latch shut, out of fear of it making noise. At some point I’m going to have to accept that the men will realize I’ve escaped. I can only hope that I have a plan by then.

When I reach the middle door, my hand goes for the handle, only to jerk back when I hear a soft, thready whine from inside. Something scratches on the door, sounding almost like fingernails, and I hesitate.

Suddenly, I really don’t want to open this door.

“T-Tyler?” I call softly, half expecting some kind of answer. But all I get is the scritch-scritch of something scraping the door, and that high whine again.