Chapter 57. Jade
Jade
I’m not ready to leave this crazy world yet, but I might not have a choice. Eventually my body will fill with enough gas to put me to sleep for good. I miss the time when thirst was my biggest concern.
I wonder how it will feel. Will I get dizzy, tired, and then just close my eyes for an endless nap? I think that’s how it goes with this sort of thing, but I’m not certain. I haven’t died before.
Conrad—straight-up psycho …
I already feel a little lightheaded. Spots dance in front of my eyes. There’s an ocean rumbling in my ears, or maybe it’s just the generator humming as it releases death into my cell. My breath comes short and quick. Am I hyperventilating?
My thoughts are scrambled, and my limbs tremble. But somehow I find a way to harness my fear. The hose … that’s my only hope. I need to feed the tube that’s going to kill me back out the window.
I gather my strength and climb up the empty wine rack, my whole body heavy and sore. I reach the highest point and wrap the fabric of my sweatshirt around my right hand. My head is still spinning, but I take a deep breath and jump.
For a moment, I think I might not make it. My legs don’t have much strength, but I stretch my arm just enough—and oh my god, I’ve got it. I’m hanging on with one hand, swinging pendulum-like against the wall. Luckily, the sweatshirt protects my skin from the rusted metal that flakes off the grate.
With a desperate grunt, I swing my other arm up, grasping some of the dangling fabric of my hoodie so I can hold on with both hands. My fingers are close enough to touch the tube but not much else. I don’t have enough leverage to push it back through the window.
The roar of the generator’s powerful motor vibrates the metal, threatening my grip.
Up here, the air tastes sour, tinged with gasoline.
It burns my throat and causes tears to come to my eyes.
But there’s also another taste—freedom. I feel a slight breeze on my face, and a faint whiff of fresh-cut grass cuts through the gasoline smell.
I’m inhaling both salvation and death at the same time.
I call out hoping someone will hear me, but with the music and the generator, I can barely hear myself. I’m not getting out of this that easily.
My one-hundred-pound frame has never felt so heavy. I’m hanging uselessly, pain in my hands and arms, tendons beginning to strain beyond their limits. It’s no use. I feel my grip slipping.
But I have a sudden flash of inspiration. I can’t push the tube out, but maybe I can stuff something in, like my hoodie—plug the opening and slow the gas that’s filling this small space. It won’t save me, but it’ll buy me some time.
With my last shred of energy, I press my feet against the stone, which helps me to hold the grate with one hand, and with the other, I start feeding the fabric between the bars of the barrier and into the tube.
I’m at the point of complete muscle fatigue, but I steadily push more fabric through the opening until I’ve blocked it as much as possible. Still, it’s not entirely sealed; there are gaps, and the sleeve of my hoodie hangs like a limp flag.
I can’t make it perfect, but I can’t hold on any longer. I have to do it—I have to let go.
I tumble to the floor, landing hard and shielding my head with my hands. I hear a horrible sound—a sickening crack—followed immediately by a jolt of pain that tells me that sound was my wrist breaking.
With a cry of agony, I roll to one side, cradling my useless limp limb with my other arm.
The stabbing pain is so intense that I fear I might pass out.
But I manage to scoot away from the window, huddling by the door on the other side of the room.
I rest my injured arm on my thigh, trying to keep it still and supported.
With my functional right hand, I reach for the broken bottle that doubles as my makeshift knife.
I sit there, waiting and forcing myself to keep my eyes open.
Someone will come to make sure the job is done, but now it’s going to take longer than expected. And when they arrive, I plan to give them one hell of a surprise.