Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
“Please, just talk to me!” Reaching out, I grab for Emma’s arm, even as she walks toward the front door of our shared apartment. “I’m not lying to you!” Tears stream down my cheeks, my eyes gritty from how much I’ve cried over the last few days. “I’m not!”
She turns to look at me over her shoulder, a look of something—hesitation?—on her face. Like she might, just for a moment, be considering taking my word this time, as she’s taken my side so many times in the past ten years.
Ten years, and I’ve never lied to her. She’s my best friend, my—
“I saw the video, Sadie-Rae,” she says, that look disappearing, her face hardening. “I heard what you said to Sebastian.”
“What I…?” I don't even remember, not truly. I know I was offered wine, and then vodka, and then—
Groans and a mouth on my neck. Whispers in my ear about just letting it happen.
I’ve always liked him anyway, he said. Why don’t I just sit back and enjoy this?
Fingers that reached and pulled and plucked at my clothes, but somehow, the clarity from fear or loyalty had struck my brain just enough to cut through the alcohol.
“Emma, please!” I say again, this time in a whisper. “Why won’t you believe me?” But I know the answer as clearly as I can see the glimmer of the fancy heirloom ring sitting on her left hand. Believing me would ruin the fantasy she’s created for herself. It would ruin everything.
I know it’s over even before the door opens and she shakes off my hand.
“Please,” I try one more time, my hand extended. Except this time I’m not reaching for Emma. I can’t. I’m sure if I can just grab her hand one more time, she’ll stop and listen to me, yet my hands are stuck over my head, straining and arms aching.
“Emma!”
She walks out the door as I fight my bindings, my feet kicking, the floor suddenly so far away. Fear replaces the hopelessness from that morning, and the ache in my arms builds along with a throbbing in my head. My hands clench, and—
My eyes snap open, lips forming the word, ‘please’ one more time as the dream clears along with the remains of unconsciousness. I try to move my arms, wanting to rub my eyes, only to find that, just like in my dream, they won’t move from above me.
“What the fuck?” I grumble to myself, blinking in the dim light of a small, dirty room.
My eyes travel around concrete walls and a concrete floor, stained with a rust-color that my brain refuses to make sense of.
Light trickles in through the cracks between the door and the wall on one side, and on another, through the cracked concrete around an old, rusted vent.
Fear builds in my chest as I try to move, and my mind tries to process what the hell is happening here. I remember the car breaking down. The walking, reaching the top of the rise, then falling down the small cliff-like embankment.
I remember the empty car, with Scotty’s blue vomit still staining the ground, though smeared like someone had slid through it.
I remember the truck, its empty cab, and going around the back to find—
“Fuck,” I hiss, my efforts redoubling. While normally I work hard not to overreact to situations, this definitely feels like one that deserves an extreme reaction.
My hands curl into fists, palms stinging as the barely formed scabs rip open and bleed.
But after a few moments of hooked-fish-like writhing and wiggling, I force myself to stop as my breaths come in heavy pants.
No. This isn’t getting me anywhere.
“Okay, okay,” I murmur. “Okay, I just need to calm down, and—”
Screaming makes me flinch and causes my heart to speed up, nearly beating out of my chest. I glance up at the rusty door, both wanting to see what’s going on and very happy I can’t.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say the screaming sounds a lot like Scotty.
But I know better, at least that’s what I’m telling myself, and I refuse to let myself freak out again. Bracing the balls of my feet against the floor, I peer upward through the dim lighting that my eyes are finally starting to adjust to.
A meat hook.
I’m tied to a fucking meat hook.
Again I have to swallow my panic. Which is becoming harder and harder to do when all of this is pointing towards a very bad situation that seems conjured right out of some backwoods slasher movie.
I work to ignore the screaming, and though it takes a few tries, I manage to push up enough for the rope around my wrists to scoot up the hook; its metal is thankfully smooth and cleaner than I would’ve expected.
I suck in a breath through gritted teeth when my strength gives out and I slam back down, but I refuse to let myself give up.
Not with the chorus of Scotty’s screams pushing me onward. Again I go up on the balls of my feet, this time feeling like I’m standing on my toes, and I breathe out quick, soft pleas to whatever deity might be listening for this to just—please—work—
I fall to my knees with a gasp on the hard concrete the instant after my hands come free, a grateful sob leaving me even as I cradle my hands to my chest. My whole body shakes from exertion, and I allow myself a few moments to pant for air.
But I can’t stay here.
Struggling to my feet, I jerk the now-loose ropes off my hands, leaving my wrists chafed and my palms bleeding, and stagger around the small, dirty room for anything I might’ve missed. Stupidly, I reach for the door, only to jerk my hand back with a small sound of disapproval at the action.
Yeah, Sadie-Rae, I mentally chastise. Just stroll right through. Let everyone know you’re awake and free.
Something dully shining on a nearby barrel catches the light and my attention.
I turn to find a couple of tools scattered across the top of the old, worn surface.
None of them are in great shape, but I snatch the rusty screwdriver from the surface anyway.
It’s better than nothing, I tell myself, as my eyes lock on the large vent on the left side of the room with its grate already half rusted through.
Visions of tetanus dance through my head as I crouch down in front of it with shaking hands and barely withheld panic. But I suppose contracting tetanus would be better than the alternative of probable death.
“I can always get vaccinated,” I whisper, my hands curling around the grate and jerking outward. The remains of it crumble in my hands, so I shift my plan of attack to just smacking at the loose, rusted pieces until the hole is big enough for me to squeeze through.
Another scream makes me pause. This time I can hear the screams forming words that burrow into my ears to implant themselves in my brain, promising to leave nightmares if I manage to get out of this alive.
“Oh, god, please! Please stop! Please, not again! I’ll do anything! Please—” The words delivered in Scotty’s high-pitched panic send a shudder down my spine, and before I can think about it, I thrust myself into the small vent between rooms.
The passage is short, thankfully, and light peeks through an equally rusted grate on the other side.
I knock the pieces away just as I did before, with hands that won’t stop shaking no matter how many deep breaths I take.
Placing my palms on the floor while trying not to get cut, I Hilll my way to the next room, a mirror of the one I woke up in, even finding another meat hook and more stains that are either rust or blood.
I refuse to look at them as blood.
As long as I pretend the concrete floor is covered in rusty paint that’s splashed up one wall, I’m somewhat okay. Hell, who am I kidding? I’ll never be okay again, and the mere notion of it makes me scoff silently with some kind of macabre humor.
There’s nothing useful here either, though, and frustration builds alongside the fear in my chest. The noises do seem more muted, and Scotty’s screams are difficult to make out, muffled like there’s a wall between us.
And hell, I can’t keep playing musical rooms…right?
Right. Sure.
“You have to rip off the band-aid,” I whisper to myself, my eyes locked on the half-ajar door. At least in this room, I won’t have to actually open the door, if the one in the room before was even unlocked, and hopefully I can make this as quiet as possible.
Then, once I’m out of this room, I just have to make it past whoever is out there fucking up Scotty, probably others, and with my current luck, a lake of fucking fire.
But sure. I’ve got this.
Inner sarcasm, I figure, is better than the panic threatening to overwhelm me.
I’ve never considered myself a particularly brave person, and if I had my way, I’d be crying on the floor while waiting for someone to come save me.
But without a knight in shining armor at the ready, or even just a platoon of police officers with shotguns at the ready, I’m not left with many options.
Slowly, ever so slowly, and with my heart firmly lodged in my throat, I pull the door open a bit more with shaking fingers.
With every inch I send up another prayer that it doesn’t creak, and the god of greased hinges must be paying attention, because I get it open enough that I can shimmy through without it making a sound.
To both my relief and horror, there isn’t yet another small cell-like room on the other side of the door.
The area is open, like a warehouse, with no windows in sight.
Instead, buzzing, bare light bulbs with moths swarming them dot the ceiling, casting unsteady light and leaving shadows that I immediately duck into, wedging myself under a worktable that’s open on both sides, allowing me to see as much of the nearby area as I can.