22. Cin
Cin
My head hurts and my mouth is full of fabric I can’t seem to remove. I can’t see anything due to the scratchy material covering my eyes, but I can hear the noise of cars as they pass by somewhere.
Willing my heart to slow, I remember the things my mother taught me if this were to happen. Breathing through the fabric is painful, and my brain feels fuzzy but I begin to catalog everything I can. My hands are bound, shoulders pulled back tight against my back. All of my clothes are intact, which is a good sign, at least I have that.
Wiggling around on the floor I find the wall and maneuver my body so I can slowly shimmy my way to a sitting position instead of lying on my side with granules of dirt pressing into my face.
My breaths are heavy, and the material around my eyes feels loose. Shaking my head against the rough wall behind my back loosens the material enough that I can tilt my head and shrug it off.
I blink a few times, eyes adjusting to the dark room. There’s a lone bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting a dirty yellow glow above me. The space is bare, with an empty metal shelf against the wall to my left and a door with a grimy window to the right. Another shelf, this one used, sits beside the door.
I force my breathing to slowly even out so I can focus.
My mother would be disappointed if I lost my shit now.
Paint cans, rollers, pans, and brushes line the shelf near the door. The scent is overwhelming, singeing my nose hairs and prevents me from smelling anything beyond the fumes.
Wiggling my fingers and stretching my shoulders so they won’t go numb, I maneuver my arms under my ass trying to bring them to my front. My muscles scream in protest at the stretch, but I need my hands if I plan on getting out of here.
Wherever here is.
I grit my teeth around the pain, only allowing myself to grunt in whispered puffs of breath. Once my hands are under my body, I rest, letting the muscles and tendons in my shoulders relax before putting them back to use.
Making a loop with my arms, I pull my left leg up to my wrists and flex it through my arms, following it up with my right leg. Slumping against the wall once my hands are finally in front of my body, I swallow my triumph.
There are so many unknowns, and if I’m going to succeed, I need to gather as much information as I can. The voices have leveled off, but I don’t hear anyone approaching the room.
Pulling the gag from my mouth, I gulp down new air that isn’t tainted with whatever was on the faded red material that had covered my mouth and nose. This room must have had paint spilled in it recently, there’s a misshapen puddle near the shelf. Standing on shaking legs, I lean against the wall, using it as a crutch to regain my mobility. I don’t know how long I’ve been out, and my muscles are weak; I must have been thrown in here haphazardly and left for a while.
Who would even want to kidnap me? As far as I know, everyone my mother has put away is dead or still in prison. We’ve kept a low profile, going as far as not even having social media. Carefully, I step to the door and try the handle. I didn’t expect it to be unlocked so panic doesn’t set in when it won’t turn.
Okay.
I survey the room again, running my hand over the shelves and searching the walls for any clues as to where I am. Layers of dust coat one of the rusted metal shelves and the whole thing shakes when I put weight on it.
But the other holds all the paint supplies I saw earlier. Nothing other than the logo from the paint supplier is on the shelf, no matter how many things I pick up and move.
Boots stomp not far from the door, heading this way. Quickly, I sit back against the wall with my hands hidden from view, so there’s no question if I’m still bound. The faded red strips from my eyes and mouth lay on the floor near me where I left them.
If whoever kidnapped me has any knowledge of who I am at all, then that would be expected.
Keys jangle outside of the door before one slides home into the lock and the door cracks open.
“She’s awake,” I hear a male voice mumble.
Based on the way he said it, as if to inform someone else, that must mean there have to be at least two of them. Unless he’s talking to himself. His booted foot comes in first, dark jeans cover his legs to a torso that’s covered in a collared shirt. He looks clean shaven, hair combed in perfect waves.
He can’t be over thirty with the way his face looks. Some baby fat still appears to be clinging to his cheeks, and his smile says he could be mistaken for friendly.
“Who are you?” My voice comes out hard, I expected it to be a little hoarse.
He laughs and squats down in front of me, “he didn’t say how pretty you were.”
Reaching out a hand, he moves as if he’s going to caress the side of my face.
Too friendly then.
I react, snapping my teeth at his outstretched hand. He pulls back, thinking better about his touching.
“Feisty,” he purrs and smiles. His hand cracks across my cheek, palm connecting so fast I didn’t see it coming. Bringing my hands out from behind my back and gripping his wrist, I snarl. Twisting until I hear the bones creak and snap, I wince at the crunch as his fragile wrist bone gives way.
He howls in pain, jerking his hand back and falling on his ass.
“The fuck…” he starts, but I jump to my feet and shove him into the shelf holding the paint. It topples over him, heavy paint cans pummeling his body with dull thuds. I bolt, unwilling to look back to see if any of them struck his head. I can’t risk being tied up again, or tied to something. His outrage is evident with the roaring command that leaves his mouth for the other person to grab me.
“Get her!” He bellows from the room, logic tells me I’m faster than he is, even if he is able to remove himself from the mess I made. Plus, he’s injured, he won’t be able to eat the distance fast enough.
I push my legs harder and tear around a corner, uncaring where it leads, as long as it’s away. If I can lose him, and avoid the other one, I can hide. Find a phone, something to get out of here without whatever these men have planned for me coming to fruition.
A door opens not far down the hall and another man steps out. Too fast for me to stop as I careen into him. His arms wrap around my shoulders, the impact knocking us both to the ground.
He bands his arms tighter around me, squeezing my breasts painfully tight. His legs try to lock around mine but I kick, and grunt. Wiggling in his arms to get away, I can feel the hard ridges of his abdomen through my thrashing. He’s strong and at least a few inches taller than me. But with my boots, I may be exactly his height.
If I can get him off of me, I can fight him off.
Finally, I see my opening; bending my arm, I grip his fingers that have locked onto his other wrist and pull. They pop and snap out of their sockets, making a quick escape; I scramble to my feet, checking behind me for the first guy.
He must have passed out from the pain, or those paint cans did a number on him.
I don’t wait for this one to get to his feet. I stomp on his ankle with my boots, satisfied by the howl of pain he tries to hide. He slides away, and hops to his feet. He’s easily got muscle on me, but we’re even in height, so I run through all of the maneuvers my mom taught me.
Wind whips past my right ear, and I let out a small scream; he tried to grab my hair. Thank fuck I didn’t wear it up today. I won’t outrun him, so quickly I jab with my fist, making sure my thumbs aren’t tucked. He dodges and counters with a blow to my side. Air rushes out of my lungs on contact.
Fuck. That hurt.
Before his other punch can land, I move and kick out with my foot connecting with his knee. He buckles but doesn’t fall, rage contorts his face and he launches himself at me.
His hands are too fast to track and I take another hit to my cheek, and though I don’t feel the pain, fear and anxiety rush through my system too fast to register.
My fists fly in a flurry, landing on his jaw and side. His head whips to the side with the force of my hit and he lashes out with his other arm, sending me into the wall. I can taste tangy blood on my lips, but I force myself to remain standing, taking hit after hit before lifting my arms and blocking his fists.
Swiftly, while he’s concentrating on my face, I bring my knee to his groin. He doubles over and coughs, choking on his spit as he tries to speak.
I run, ignoring the pain in my body and pumping my arms. I almost turn the corner when his body tackles me to the floor.
“You fucking brat .”
He lands on top of me, flips me over, and circles my neck with his hands as his legs pin my body to the floor. His knees dig into my sides that are already bruised. But the pain is replaced by adrenaline.
I choke for air as he puts his weight into his hands strangling me. Gasping and writhing on the floor for a breath, a sliver of oxygen that won’t come, I reach for his face. Gripping and tearing at anything I can get, he head butts me, and I see stars.
Holy fucking shit.
My vision goes black and I want to give up, because my lungs are on fire and my body is starting to wane. But a new surge of fight sparks in my blood and I grasp his ears, ripping with my nails at the soft flesh behind them. He jerks back, just a moment, but it’s enough to get a big gulp of air into my lungs.
I cough and sputter as I try to buck him off of me.
He’s screaming in my face now, hands back around my neck. Eyes bulging from his head, and it hits me, I’m going to have to kill him. He’s not going to let me go. A tear leaks out unbidden.
I don’t want to kill him, but if I have to choose, I’m choosing me.
Grabbing hold of his head, I push my thumbs into his eyes, pressing hard enough that I feel the way they squish and shift in his sockets. He howls and lets go of my throat. I jab him in the side and shimmy out from under him, putting all the strength I can muster into a kick to his knee. It fucking shatters with the force, and I gag at the scream of pain he lets out. Then I’m pushing him down face first into the floor, stomping on his head with my booted foot, and screaming until I’m hoarse and he’s no longer moving. His head is a mess of blood, tissue, and brain matter.
What little I have in my stomach threatens to surface, but I swallow it down and hastily search his pockets. He had to have a phone, I’m muttering to myself, soft words of encouragement and forgiveness.
“It was him or you, Cin.” I mutter to myself, “you did what you had to, now get the fuck out of here.”
A hard square device is in his back pocket, and footsteps begin to make their way down the hall. I rip the device from his pocket and take off at the fastest clip I can manage.
My lungs burn and sides ache from his assault, but I can’t stop now. I have to get out, find a place to call Mama.
I hear cars again; my ears are ringing, but I can hear the rumble of motors. Can almost smell the exhaust. A small set of stairs lead up to a door that I rush through–I don’t have time to be careful–with a body on the floor, and another one in the closet where I’m supposed to be… someone will come looking.
Whoever that may be.
Exhaust filled air inflates my aching lungs, I can almost cry with relief. Spotting a crop of trees, I limp to them for cover, fingers slipping over the buttons on the screen to call Mama, momentarily shocked at the phone having no passcode. Taking note of the stream of cars passing by a cement barricade, I figure, wherever they brought me, I’m near a highway.
If I can walk through the trees, I could find a sign for an exit, mile marker, something to help Mama locate me. I just hope they didn’t grab her too, and Gemma. Fuck, if they grabbed Gemma I don’t know what I could do to make her forgive me.
The phone rings, and rings, I almost give up and call 911 when I hear her panicked voice.
“Hello? Cin?”
“Mama,” I croak, tears flow down my cheeks as all the pain rushes in to replace the adrenaline that swam through my body.
“Oh my God!” she screams, “stay on the phone baby, we’re coming.”
I do as she says, sitting down behind a tree to hide. If they come looking, I don’t want to be easily found.
“Cin, baby, tell me what you see,” she says, voice clearer but still edged with worry.
“I looked, Mama, I tried–” I hiss as my body relaxes and I start to feel the extent of the pain. Bile burns my stomach, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. “I tried to find a sign, it’s just…” I tell her, but my body is bruised and I think a few of my ribs are broken.
It’s hard to breathe, and I’m starting to see black at the edges of my vision, which means I’m going to pass out.
“It’s okay baby, we’re coming. Try to stay awake, and just tell me what you see.”
“Trees, thin saplings, and concrete walls beside a highway…” I trail off because nothing else is sticking out, and the edges of my vision are turning white. “I love you, Mama.”