Chapter 30
CHAPTER
THIRTY
Panic paralyzes me for a fraction of a second before terror pushes me into running. After only a few steps, I realize that if I stay on the road, he can run me down or pull over and drag me inside. I can't outrun a truck. Why didn’t I think to slash his tires before leaving?
I veer off the road, and for a horrifying moment, it feels like I’m falling. The ditch filled with snow isn’t visible and now I’m half buried in it. My childhood fears of quicksand blink across my mind and I cry out as I scramble upwards, clawing at the icy crust.
I manage to drag myself forward enough to climb out, but the snow is still piled as high as my knees through the forest. Every step is a herculean effort and I’m not running anymore. I’m wading, and not nearly fast enough.
I risk a look back and the truck has stopped. Alex gets out. “Sybil!” he shouts, jumping over the ditch and heading my way.
I push harder, my thighs screaming at me as branches claw at my face. A low hanging limb scratches across my temple, but I barely feel the pain. I need to get deeper into the woods, put enough distance between us so that the dark will hide me.
“Sybil, stop! You’re going to freeze to death!” His voice cuts through the frosty air, terrifyingly close. How am I going to hide when he can follow my path in the snow? He’s closing the distance fast. Every step he takes is three of mine and I’m wearing down.
In that moment, I’ve never felt more alone. Not in the early years of living by myself in the trailer or being locked in that cell. Out here in the middle of nowhere Kentucky, under a frozen sky, sorrow like I’ve never known throws a heavy blanket over me.
In less than a minute, he’ll be on top of me. I can’t outrun him or hide from him. If I’m going to survive the night, I have to fight him. Giving up isn’t an option when Troy sits in that cell.
I stop moving and drop my bag on the ground. My chest heaves and my breath rolls out in thick plumes of steam as I yank on the zipper. My hands shake, and my fingers feel stiff and clumsy from the biting cold as I fumble with it. The zipper moves an inch then stops.
No, no, please, no.
The crunching of his footsteps is a rhythmic death march as I pull at the zipper, tearing it open a few inches. “Stay away from me!” I scream. “I’ll fucking kill you. I swear I will!”
I yank hard and the material tears along the seam of the zipper, giving me a hole to plunge my hand through. My fingers wrap around the knife, but the handle is too large to pull it out.
I’m lifted off my feet and my back hits a hard surface, the bag jostling out of my grasp. “It’s okay,” he says, as he pins me to a tree. He doesn’t hit me but uses his overwhelming strength to pull my hands in front of my waist where he fastens them together with a zip tie.
My screaming and kicking don’t deter him one bit. He’s too much larger and stronger.
“Stop. Sybil, stop.” His face is inches from mine, and I can feel the warmth of his breath against my freezing skin. “Stop fighting me. You’re only going to make things worse.”
His threat does the opposite of what he intends. It reminds me how much worse things will be if he gets me back to his house. “Get off me! Let me go!” I writhe under him, trying to bite his hand, or knee him in the crotch. I manage to stomp hard on his foot, but he’s unaffected.
He reaches into his coat pocket and then shoves his finger into my mouth. It’s unexpected, and before I can clamp my teeth down, he pulls it out and slams his hand over my lips, forcing me to keep them closed.
A cool minty taste floods my tongue, but it was no breath mint he put in my mouth. I can’t spit it out, but he can’t make me swallow.
It doesn’t matter. Whatever he’s given me quickly dissolves, and I can taste the slight bitterness in the back of my throat.
He holds me against the tree for a couple of agonizing minutes.
I look up at the dark canopy above us, the black branches swaying against the starry sky.
My heart is a frantic bird against my ribcage, hammering so hard he can probably feel it.
I want to scream into his palm, bite and claw at him, but my muscles are beginning to feel heavy.
“Good, that’s better, isn’t it?” he says cheerfully, removing his hand from my mouth. Whatever he gave me isn’t the same thing he’s been putting in my drinks. It’s far stronger.
I draw in a ragged icy breath. “Get off me, you goddamn psychopath.” My tongue feels thick and clumsy.
My words don’t seem to bother him. I’m not even sure they register as he steps back and asks, “Can you walk, or do I need to carry you?” His hand remains clamped tightly around my upper arm.
Fury flashes through my growing mental fog, giving me a surge of angry strength, and I wrench my arm away. My boots feel like lead as I stumble backward. The adrenaline that was driving me is evaporating, suppressed by the drug, but sheer rage forces my legs to move. “I can walk.”
Easier said than done. My racing heart has dropped into a slow thud, and every step is a battle against my own nervous system.
Tears leak down my cheeks but it’s hard to keep my thoughts straight.
The ragged, uncoordinated march back to the road feels like it lasts forever, and I don’t have the energy to argue when he grabs me to help me over the ditch.
He opens the passenger door without a word and helps me inside. The blast of the truck’s heater makes my face tingle as he reaches in and pulls the seatbelt across me. The click sounds distant, as if it comes from underwater.
The drive back to the house is a slow motion nightmare. I rest my head against the cold glass. The anger that fueled my run through the woods and the walk back to the truck fizzles, and I’m not sure I have the strength to lift my head anymore.
The world feels distorted, fuzzy at the edges, but no less beautiful. Maybe because I’m aware that I’m seeing the pre-dawn sky and fading stars for the last time.
Alex drives with one hand on the wheel, glancing over at me a couple of times. His calm expression and demeanor, as if we’re only returning from a mundane errand, is the most terrifying part. It makes me ache with a hollow hopelessness that feels bone deep.
I’m aware that I’ve been caught, that my escape failed and I’m being taken back to some sort of horrific end, but my body feels unplugged from my brain. The fear screaming in my head doesn’t reach the surface.
The truck bounces up the long, unplowed driveway, and Alex kills the engine. He opens my door and cuts the zip tie, freeing my hands. I try to step out, but my leg barely responds.
“I’ve got you,” he says, scooping me out of my seat to carry me in the house.
I’m conscious, watching my own kidnapping, and helpless to stop it.
Once we get inside, he carries me toward his room instead of the guest room.
I should be afraid, but I can’t seem to feel anything anymore.
It’s like I’m watching from the shadows as he places me on the bed and starts taking off my boots.
The only thing that catches my attention is that he brought my bag back too.
It’s sitting on the floor near the bathroom. Is the knife still hidden inside?
It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. The long dark calls to me and for the first time in my life, I genuinely hope that I won’t wake up again.
I’m sorry, Troy. I tried. I really did.