Page 78 of Levee

I’d like to claim my instincts kicked in automatically, that I wasn’t completely slow and confused for a solid few seconds, sleep still clinging to my mind and body.

But as the hand pressed harder, holding me down against the couch cushions, awareness slammed into me.

Too late, of course, to scream, to alert neighbors. And because Levee had been there with me for a few nights, my trusty knife was in the knife drawer where it belonged, not beside me.

A panicked whimper escaped me, muffled against my attacker’s hand.

“Can’t leave it alone, huh?” he asked, making me blink at the darkness, trying to adjust to it, to get a good look at him.

If I could justreally seeone of them, I could draw up a sketch to bring to the police.

My hands shot out instinctively, reaching toward his face. Being met not with flesh, but the scratchy material of a ski mask.

“Didn’t want it to come to this,” he added as his free hand slid to my throat.

No.

No, this couldn’t be happening, damnit.

The pressure on my throat had my heart rate tripping into overdrive, beating harder in my neck, in my head.

I would love to say that some innate instinct to survive kicked in, that I suddenly developed some sort of superhuman strength, or that some karate moves from a TV show popped up into my head, allowing me to get this man off of me in mere seconds.

None of that would be true.

I flailed, slapping my hands into his face, balling up my fists and punching his arms.

None of it had any impact.

And my face was starting to feel fuzzy.

Time seemed to slow down.

But my mind raced. A million thoughts rushed around, crashed into each other.

Leaving me with just two separate, singular thoughts.

I was never going to see Levee again.

And I was going to die without even knowing who my killer was.

It wasn’t sudden bravery on my part that made any sort of difference. It was the impatience of my attacker that gave me the slightest chance to live.

Frustrated that I wasn’t, you know, dying quickly enough, his hand that was strictly covering my mouth lifted to, I assume, try to cover my nose as well to cut off all of my air.

But in doing so, there was just enough room for me to suck in a breath and scream bloody freaking murder.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped, pressing his hand more firmly against my face, making my still-sore nose scream in pain.

But that was nothing compared to the way panic and fear reached a fever pitch as I suddenly couldn’t draw in any air.

This was when some sort of real survival instinct kicked in, making me strike out, writhe, try to pull my legs up to kick out.

The struggle only seemed to make me run out of oxygen even faster, though.

That fuzziness from before became blackness closing in on my vision.

This was it.

---