Page 75 of Petrichor

My lungs start burning, and I can hardly breathe as he gets me in a chokehold. I claw at him, but he doesn’t let go, pushing harder on my windpipe. I search on the ground for something, but there’s nothing I can use as a weapon. My words come out in mumbled sounds, as my vision turns blurry.

The last thing I see is the memory of Marco’s blank face.

Chapter Eleven

Fly

The searing pain in my back pulls me back to consciousness. My throat aches, and I feel slightly nauseated. All the years living under my father’s roof make me hold perfectly still, letting out even breaths while I try to discern where I am using all my senses except sight. Just like old times.

Discreetly flexing my hands, I’m surprised not to find them tied—my wrists took the brunt of the fall and now ache, but not as much as they would if they were broken. I’m still wearing all my wet clothes—thank fucking God—except my shoes. The smell of dirt and humidity engulfs me, almost making me gag. I’m going to fucking maim Jerry.

The sheets under me tell me I’m on a bed. They have that new, tangy smell like they haven’t been used before. I can’t hear any sounds in the surrounding space, so I cautiously open one eye then the other. I’m in a bedroom. There’re bars on the window and atable on the left. A nightstand near me with a table lamp on it. White walls. Ikea-like furniture. Everything looks cheap, average. Where the fuck am I?

It’s still dark outside. The ceiling light keeps flickering annoyingly at intervals. I sit up, gritting my teeth against my aching head and the soreness in my body. The absence of pain down there makes me release a trembling, relieved sigh. But I still feel a shiver of repulsion at the thought of being unconscious with Jerry near me.

Not wanting to dwell on it, I slide down the bed and pause. Ears open, heart pounding. Nothing happens. I look around for my shoes and my bag, but there’s no sign of them.

I suddenly remember my phone. I slide my hand inside the bra and find it. The screen is badly cracked, and even though it’s on, it doesn’t seem to work. Damn it! I bite my lower lip, trying hard to think.

I go to the door and gently twist the knob. It doesn’t move. I silently cuss when I hear footsteps. I place my ear on the wooden door. Someone is coming this way.

I put the phone back in my bra and look around for a weapon. I grab the vase-like table lamp and unplug it, pulling on the cord. It burns like a bitch, the palms of my hands are all scraped and covered in cuts. Tossing the lampshade on the bed, I jog silently near the door and wait.

Pumped full of adrenaline, heart in my throat, I hear the click of the lock, then someone opens the door and comes in. I wait a second to confirm they’re alone, I push the door closed and then hit them in the head with the lamp not once, but twice. My kidnapper drops down on the floor. It’s fucking Jerry!

I place the lamp down and pat his jeans pockets. Lip balm, keys, a wallet, a paper napkin with a phone number and a guy’s name. Nocell. No weapons. Fucking useless. I grab his hair and smash his face on the ground, holding in my urge to scream and curse him. Fucking prick. I’ll take Art’s offer on that assassin as soon as I get out of here.

I grab the money and slide it near my phone—if I get out of here I’ll need it. Then I take the keys and hold them in my fist just like Marco suggested that time I punched the pervy guy in the bar. Only thinking about him makes me want to cry and scream. I want to see him so badly and feel his arms around me and the safety they offer…offered.

Shit! No time for that now.

I open the door just a smidge, enough to look outside. There’s a large corridor with two closed doors on each side. At the end a living room and through the window I see a backyard. It looks like a lower middle-class house, with flowery curtains and carpetedfloors. But there’s a strange, foreboding vibe in the air. It gives me the creeps.

If I reach the back door near the window, I can get outside and disappear. It’s better than waiting for Jerry to wake up. I don’t know how long he’s going to be out.

I slide out of the bedroom, locking the fucker inside. Why is there a bolt on the outside? I see bolts on the other doors, too. It’s like a horror movie set. My blood runs cold as I hurry my steps—my bare feet don’t make any sound on the cold floor. I jump as I hear a small noise coming from behind me. I look back, but the hallway is empty. There’s nobody. The door on my left abruptly opens, and I slam into a solid chest. My already throbbing body loudly protests, and I lurch and stagger back.

A man I’ve never seen before is in front of me, blocking my escape. He’s heavily built, wearing a white shirt with a loose tie around his neck. The cuffs and part of both sleeves have splatters of what looks to be blood. And I have my confirmation when I see the bloody knife he’s holding.

Dread slithers inside me as I meet his callous, pitiless eyes.

“You are a cute, little troublemaker!” His cruel smile makes me tighten the fist around the keys until I feel the metal digging into my abused palm. “I’ve never seen trash take it out itself, though!” He sneers, looking behind him where two more men are now standing, laughing with him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What should I do? I send a glance to the back door behind them, it would be impossible to reach it. I can see a gun peeking under one of the men’s jackets. Plus, the scary one is holding a knife. So, what should I do? Think!

Go back to the bedroom they locked me in? There’s no way out from there. I should try the door he came out from, but he’s standing too close to it.

“Hoping ‘the Knuckle’ is going to come and get you? He’s too busy, I made sure of it,” the guy with the knife lets me know with a satisfied smirk.

The last image of Marco comes to mind. His hard eyes. The hurtful words he directed at me. The echo of his footsteps trailing off into the distance, it all increases exponentially the sense of loss that I know will never disappear.

“Busy?” I force the word out of my aching throat as a new sense of dread for Marco forms in my chest.

One of the guys in the back replies, “Torturing the fuckers that shot at him.”

“Moretti. That fucking prick messed up the plan,” the taller man behind complains.

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