Chapter 52. Jade
Jade
I bite my lip trying to hold back tears. It takes a minute, but I center myself. I’m not going to let these fuckers beat me. I’m determined to get to that window.
The tall wine rack suddenly looks a lot like a ladder. I start pulling wine bottles out of their slots, one by one, until the rack is mostly empty.
The structure is tall and bulky, curved like the room. I tried to push it to get it closer to the window, but it’s secured to the wall. I’m breathless from trying, but I’m not about to give up.
I slip my foot into the bottom opening of the rack, hoisting myself off the ground. I pull back to test if the wine rack will hold my weight without tipping over. It does, so I start climbing higher—left foot, right foot, one hand, then the other—until my shoulders are level with the grate.
I let go with one hand, leaning out as far as I can. My arms and legs are tired and shaky. But no matter how far I reach, my fingertips don’t even touch the metal.
There’s only one option remaining. Summoning all my courage, I push myself off the rack and leap into the air.
In flight, I manage to grab two looping sections of the scroll-like design a millisecond before I would have fallen to the floor.
My fingers latch onto the metal loops, and I hold on, but that’s all I can do.
With my feet suspended off the ground and my arms fully extended, I hang there like a piece of wall art.
Rust causes brittle flakes of metal to break off under my grip and jab into my skin like painful cactus needles.
From up here, I can see outside. I’m looking out at a stretch of lawn that fades into a dense patch of trees and shrubs. The window is on the side of the house, not the front, so there’s less chance of someone walking past it.
I pull on the barricade, hoping to free it from the wall, but I have no leverage. Even if I did, I realize it’s securely attached to the stone with rusted bolts and brackets.
My muscles burn from hanging on so long.
I have to let go. When I drop, my knees hit the floor—hard.
I scramble back to my feet. Everything aches, blood pooling on my palms where the rust broke the skin.
If I weren’t close to death, I’d worry about tetanus.
I pace the room, picking rust flakes out of my bleeding hands, feeling helpless like a caged tiger, and just as angry.
Out of pure spite, I reach down and grab the nearest wine bottle. I don’t care about the vintage or the year. Mostly, I’m thinking about my aim. I cock my arm back, then whip it forward with velocity like I’m throwing a knife.
The bottle sails from my grasp, spinning end over end, streaking through the air and hitting the grate in a perfect bull’s-eye.
It shatters on impact with a loud explosion of glass.
The crack is deafening in this confined space.
A cloud of red liquid hovers in the air for a split second before splashing onto the floor.
The red pool on the stones resembles a prelude to my murder. The air smells sickly sweet.
I don’t know what I thought would happen. I guess I wasn’t thinking much at all. But something in the middle of the puddle of wine catches my eye—it’s the top of the broken bottle I just threw. The neck forms a perfect handle. The bottom is jagged like a shark’s teeth.
I grasp it in my hands. It has weight and feels like a knife. I turn toward the door. My eyes narrow. Grinding my teeth, I tighten my grip on the makeshift weapon. I may not get out of here alive, but I’m not going down without a fight.