Page 29 of To Have and to Hold

There had to be something to look forward to. In all the—hours?—I’d been left alone, there was grief, then despair, screaming, hysterics—though now I yelled in croaks, the sad result of dehydration and exhaustion. And acceptance. Determination. Grim survival. After a while, I’d rewind back to the beginning and tears would pool until I reminded myself I had no water, and to survive meant conserving what was left. And the cycle would begin anew.

I was so parched I didn’t need a latrine, so hungry there was a gnawing seasick sway in my belly. I chewed on my hair to impart some kind of taste on my tongue, to trick my stomach into thinking nourishment was coming down. I sat on my haunches and rocked into the wall, humming top 40 songs, clinging to normalcy.

Memories helped, of course. Flashbacks of moments when I was happy and stupidly ignorant. But they were starting to mesh, then transform, past anchoring to present, but that wasn’t possible. My current and ex-fiancé swapped and morphed, my friends, my parents. Life can seem unresolved when faced with the threat of imminent death, and all these what-ifs and awkward things I did in the past reared their serpent heads, asking through their fangs why I ever expected destiny to work itself out as I went along.

So, I moved on to what was probably the most important element in the present situation: Myself.

As much as I dreaded what would come next, it was better to gather my wits and amp up into a fight. He’d gotten me this far, taken me away from my comforts and removed my most important sense, eyesight. The Skull thought he was whittling down my sanity, depriving me of basic necessities so I’d rely on him and beg him and do whatever he wanted.

I would not.

Chanting over and over helped. I would not I would not I will not. There were gaps where I thought I would, where it could be so easy to give in and allow him to do what he willed before setting me free—however he decided to do it. What was my life now? Would I be here years later? Would someone find my bones one day, still hunched in a corner, my mummified mouth parted in the endless, pointless chant of I would nots?

I hated the fucking dark.

No. I was twenty-seven. I had years ahead of me and how dare the Skull deprive me of that. He took me right when I was nestled comfortably, that bastard. Gaining strides in my career, marrying the perfect guy, moving upstate, planning a family. Not that it would’ve been better if my life were in shambles. After breaking up with Spence I thought the only future I had was at the bottom of a wine bottle, and this ratshit could’ve taken me then and I’d be just as pissed off as I was now. Situation didn’t matter. Timing wasn’t the point. Nobody should feel so powerful as to abduct and torture and kill, and yet opportunities arose every day.

So here I was, swaying in a black chasm, searching for sarcasm and humor to endure this viper pit of despair.

Inhale.

Deep breaths could calm me, exactly what my yoga teacher taught. They relaxed the body, cleared the mind, and my thoughts were too cluttered to make sense.

Exhale.

Clarity was key. When the Skull came back, focus equaled survival. An ability to use the senses I still possessed. Smell, touch, hearing.

Inhale.

I’d have to listen for his movements to silently slink away from him. Become one with the permanent night and blend into the camouflage it offered.

Exhale.

If I could get close enough, sneak up on him, maybe I could incapacitate somehow, find an opening where I could sprint out the door.

Inhale. Exhale.

Too fast. I had to slow down my breathing to plan. Nothing was going to save me except my own intellect.

Inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale.

Oxygen was moving too quickly, becoming hyperventilation and rapid breaths. Calm down. Breathe. In…out…

Inhale-exhale.

In, out.

Inhale-exhale-inhale.

I shook my head, rubbed at my cheeks. This wasn’t right. My breathing wasn’t regulating. There were too many breaths, inhales that were short and exhales too long and mixing together—

Oh my God.

The sound of my recoil was known only to me, a silent backfire into the wall.

It wasn’t my breathing.

He was in here with me.

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