7. Kelley
7
KELLEY
T he door closes behind Jackson with a snap. He left me here, tied to this chair with his belt securely wrapped around me.
“Shit,” I whisper, looking frantically around the room. I see no way to get out other than the high windows.
The room is sparsely decorated, the stark white walls are devoid of any art. The only furniture besides the hardwood chair I’m bound to, is a mahogany desk littered with papers, a typewriter, and an old dusty lamp.
I start to rock my body back and forth, hoping to loosen Jackson's belt. My heart throbs in my chest like a wild drum, echoing in my ears.
I focus on the belt's buckle, it gleams menacingly under the drab fluorescent light. It digs into my ribs, cold and unyielding.
But then, a glimmer of hope sparks to life as I notice the unevenness in the leather strap. I stop squirming for a moment and decide to meticulously work on that weak spot.
My fingers start to probe aimlessly at first but eventually find rhythm, playing with the edge of the belt like a fine instrument. A bead of sweat trickles down from my forehead, stinging my eyes, but I don't stop. I continue fiddling with it, twisting and turning, each little tug bringing me closer to freedom.
Then, suddenly, there’s give. Not much, but enough to make me hopeful. Using all my strength I pull at the unraveled edge, feeling the abrasive leather scrape against my palms until at last - it snaps!
With a sigh of relief, I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I was holding as the belt falls away from me like a limp snake. My wrists burn and ache in retaliation of their sudden freedom but it's nothing compared to the sweet taste of liberation.
I get up from my confinement slowly and stagger towards the high windows.
My breath comes in ragged gasps as I ascend the old wooden desk, the smell of aged mahogany filling my nostrils. The world tilts precariously under my feet and I steady myself against the blistering cold wall. The papers on the desk scatter like frightened birds, flitting to the floor with a fluttering sound that echoes eerily in the desolate room.
The typewriter stands like a sentinel, its keys like gleaming steel teeth under the pale light. A fleeting thought crosses my mind about the stories that must have been told through it; countless tales born from the touch of determined fingers. But now is not the time for distractions, I remind myself sharply, focusing back on the task at hand.
Standing on the tips of my boots, I stretch as high as I can reach. My heart pounding like a war drum as my fingers scramble along the window's edges, frantically trying to find purchase.
The bars are frosty against my fingertips, biting into my skin in stark contrast to the warmth seeping back into my freed hands. Even as I wince at their cold embrace, I latch onto them desperately.
With one last surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, I manage to pry open a small gap between two bars. The night air is cooler than I thought, it weaves itself into my hair and kisses my cheeks with frosty lips. It tastes like freedom - crisp and pure.
The lock is rusted and stubborn beneath my fumbling fingers: an unyielding opponent mocking me from its cold metal cage. But I don’t give up; I can't afford to.
Despite my best efforts, it won’t budge and I scream in frustration.
“Fuck!”
Hopping down, I scan the room frantically once more and my thoughts turn to Marcy. Guilt pierces every fiber of my being. I’m not sure what happened to her and I’ve been so consumed by my own predicament that I’ve failed to give her a second thought.
Her doe-like eyes shrouded in bravado and stubborn determination flash in my mind. The last image I have of her is her running in the opposite direction from me, fear in her eyes, as she ran from Jackson.
Oh, Marcy. If only I hadn’t flippantly disregarded the rules. My reckless actions lead to unimaginable chaos. My heart constricts with a thought. A terrible possibility.
Could she have made it out? Or was she caught in the whirlwind of disaster we had unwittingly initiated, a pair of hapless butterflies triggering a hurricane with our unsuspecting wings?
The roar of motorcycle engines, the guttural grumble of voices – they crash around me like phantom waves. Memories flood me: secret whispers beneath starlit skies, shared laughter echoing off dimly lit alleyways, hurried footsteps on cobblestone streets leading to nowhere and everywhere all at once.
“Marcy,” I whisper into the silent room that seems cavernous without her infectious laughter to fill it.
Guilt gnaws inside me like an insatiable beast. With each heartbeat, with each ragged breath, it grows larger – threatening to devour me whole.
I shake my head violently, scattering these torturous thoughts to the wind. They're useless now. All that matters is getting out. Out of this room, out of this bind.
My gaze lands on the aged typewriter and my anger takes over. I pick it up and hurl it across the room.
A deranged laugh escapes my lips, slicing through the cold air as my fury ignites. My knuckles whiten as rage courses through me, sparking a destructive energy I never knew I possessed.
I whirl around the room like a hurricane, toppling the rickety chair that had offered me nothing but discomfort. With a swift kick, I launch it across the room, splintering wood meeting the cement wall with a satisfying crunch.
I continue my rampage, overturning tables and chairs with reckless abandon. The multitude of papers that were sitting on the desk flutter to the ground like aimless butterflies in a storm. The old whiskey glass shatters as I hurl it to the ground.
Bookshelves are ripped apart, their contents strewn haphazardly across the room. Stories written by talented hands, lay trampled beneath my boots. Each step I take is a symphony of destruction; one that reverberates off of these four walls that have become my prison.
Caught in the maelstrom of my own fury, I spot it. A glimmer of metallic hope nestled within the padded confines of the now mutilated couch - a screwdriver.
My heart leaps at the sight while my hands, shaking with a mixture of adrenaline and anxiety, reach out for the tool. The handle feels cool, solid, and reassuring against my clammy skin as my fingers close around it. The couch, once an object of comfort and reverie now stood like a defeated demon, a portal into the chaos that had been unleashed by my actions.
The roar of my destructive symphony drowns out the echoes of Marcy's laughter. I raise the screwdriver high above my head, feeling its weight, gaining momentum from it. There's no turning back now. No time for remorse or sorrow.
With one sweeping motion and a guttural scream escaping my throat raw from crying out her name, I drive the screwdriver through the leather upholstery. Polyester stuffing bursts from its seams like white clouds fissuring in a stormy sky.
Again and again, I plunge the metal tool into the forsaken couch until there is nothing left but an unrecognizable pile of shredded upholstery and stuffing.
Barely pausing to catch my breath, I turn towards the pool table. It stands stoic against the chaos encircling it; a beacon of past enjoyment now tarnished by fear and desperation. Its sturdy green surface taunts me - daring me to unleash pandemonium upon its well-crafted figure.
The screwdriver in my hand becomes more than a tool; it is now a weapon, an outlet for my pent-up rage, my simmering frustration. I hurl myself at the pool table, wielding the screwdriver like a knight's sword.
My first strike splinters the once polished wooden frame, sending shards of varnished mahogany flying across the room. The second strike rips through the green felt surface, tearing it apart and revealing the slate underneath.
As I continue my onslaught, the pool table's balls roll off in fear; the eight ball hides behind a pile of ruined curtains, while the cue ball rolls to a stop by an overturned lamp. I target each ball individually with my screwdriver, puncturing the glossy veneers and leaving them deflated husks of their former selves.
The room pulsates with the symphony of chaos. My anger boils over into a painting on the wall - a once cherished piece depicting an old motorcycle and scarcely clad woman riding it.
With a final act of defiance, I rip it down and shred it to pieces, streaks of cobalt blue and forest green mixing with shards of glass frame tumbling onto the floor.
Just as I am about to lay waste on the last untouched item - an antique wooden bookshelf - I hear the door creak open. Footsteps echo through the hallways before halting at the entrance to our demolished sanctuary.
Jackson stands rooted to the spot; his eyes wide with disbelief as they take in the remnants of his once well put together haven. He appears smaller somehow; his bravado diminished by desolation.
"Do you like what you see?" I ask him, my voice ringing out clear and strong through the ruins.
Before he can reply, I lunge at him with the screwdriver, my aim unsteady but full of intent. He stumbles back, surprise etching itself onto his face like a macabre self-portrait.
But a swift movement on his part has him evading my wild charge, leaving me to collide with the remains of the bookshelf in a shower of timeless literature and dusty splinters.