Page 34 of Still Beating

Dean pulls his lips between his teeth, mulling over whatever he’s going to say. I watch his throat bob as he swallows, his grown-out hair sticking to his forehead. “I know I said you can go back to hating me when we get out of here,” he says in an angst-ridden voice. “But I really hope you don’t.”

A solemn silence hangs between us, thick and palpable.

I blink.

Then I smile and reply, “But it’s fun.”

Dean’s mouth tips up into his own smile, taking in the words I’ve adamantly denied for so long. I cling to that smile, using it as fuel as I make my way up the wood steps, hoping and praying the basement door is unlocked. If it’s not, I guess I’ll be squeezing myself through that tiny window that has taunted me for the past two-and-a-half weeks. I bite my lip, reaching out a tentative hand towards the doorknob.

It twists. The door squeaks open.

There is a God. There is a freakin’ God.

I blow out a slow breath, my body relaxing just a bit. I’ve made it out of the basement. Out of the dungeon. Out ofHell.

Now… to feel the crisp November air against my skin. I want to swallow it down and let it cleanse me, washing it all away. Every rape and sleepless night. Every stab of hunger and insatiable thirst. Every teardrop, every nightmare, every hollow thought.

I take cautious steps down the narrow hallway, passing the small bathroom on the left and heading towards the main living room. The house reeks of mold and urine. There are a few crooked pictures lining the walls, showing me that this monster isn’t anactualmonster. He’s human. He has a life. A family. They have no idea what he has become.

I keep walking, noting a 1970s kitchen on the right and a musty living room on the left. There is an oak door off the living area. An escape.

But before I make my exit, a calendar catches my eye. It’s pinned to the wall in front of me with a red thumbtack. There are large exes made in black Sharpie across the dates starting from November 8thand ending yesterday, November 25th. There is a scribble next to the number eight that reads: “New Pets”. A shiver crawls up my spine as my feet make their way towards the calendar. It’s surreal to think that almost the entire month has been wasted in captivity.

I flip through the preceding months, my curiosity getting the better of me. Nine days prior to the eighth are blank—the last ex is etched onto the square of October 29th. My stomach coils with dread at the realization that another couple likely died that day. I count the previous exes:there are twenty-two. The couple before us survived twenty-two days in that basement.

Our time was almost up.

A strangled sound escapes me as I bring a hand to my mouth, holding back my queasiness. My insides feel sick, and I want to puke. And cry. And scream.

But I don’t. I’m almost there. I’m almostout.

On instinct, I snatch up a few envelopes lying in a stack of mail on the kitchen table.

They are addressed toEarl Hubbard.His address is listed.

Perfect.

I spin around, uncaring that I’m only wearing Dean’s too-big shoes and a t-shirt that barely touches mid-thigh. All I care about is finding help for Dean. All I care about is ending this nightmare and putting Earl behind bars for the rest of his life.

I run to the front door and whip it open. The cool air assaults me, and it’s much colder than I anticipate. Probably freezing. I look around, realizing we’re tucked away on some kind of farm, far, far away from civilization. The acreage stretches farther than my eyes can see. Part of me wonders how long I’ll even last out here before succumbing to hypothermia.

No.

Dean is counting on me. His life depends on me.

I can do this.

I dart out the door and start running straight ahead, hoping there is some kind of road or town behind the line of trees. The icy leaves crunch beneath my feet as the cold wind already begins to freeze my limbs.

But my escape is cut short when I feel a hand wrap around my mouth, while a thick arm encircles my waist, pulling me back. The envelopes fall from my grip.

No, no, no.

Earl snarls against my ear as I kick my legs and scream into his filthy palm. “Nice try, kitten. You’re going to pay for this.”

“No!” I scream and scream and scream, my efforts muffled by Earl’s hand. As he hauls me back towards the house, I notice a charcoal grill off to the side with a turkey sitting atop the grates. I blink, struck by a cruel twist of fate.

It’s Thanksgiving.

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