Page 34 of Saving Sparrow
“He used to blush a lot,” I said, noting one of the significant differences between them. “We got good at reading him by how intensely he flushed.” Rosy pinpricks along his cheeks betrayed his shyness.
Sparrow’s chin shifted to the left slightly. Not enough for him to glance over his shoulder at the open door, but enough to let me know where his thoughts were headed. He wanted to leave.
I was tempted to rush past him, to run as fast and as far as my frail limbs would take me if it meant not being left alone in here again. But what then? I couldn’t get outside without the keys, and I wouldn’t leave anyway. Not without Elliott. I’d remain Sparrow’s prisoner until he freed me. Until he freedus.
“The skin right below his eyes would redden when he was angry. He didn’t need to cry for it to happen.” I kept talking in the hope my words would tempt him to stay and listen. I’d taken another step forward, now within arm’s reach of him.
“Stop,” he warned, sending goose bumps racing along my skin. My fight-or-flight instincts activated, and I backed away.
Sparrow turned for the door, and in my panic, I abandoned all thoughts of self-preservation and ran after him. The door slammed closed before I got there. I banged against it, shouting to be let out.
“How much longer are you going to keep me in here?” I banged again. “Sparrow!” I rammed my shoulder against the wood, groaning as the pain reverberating through my torso knocked the wind out of me.
Panting, I rested my sweaty forehead against the door, unsure if he was even on the other side. “He wouldn’t want this. Please, he wouldn’t want this.” I sank to the floor, waiting for him to come back.
Sparrow didn’t return. Not with lunch or dinner and not to replenish the firewood. I crawled into bed, shivering when the embers died out, letting exhaustion take me.
Over the next few nights, the hallucinations worsened until hearing the sirens and my mother’s lullaby became a nightly thing. I knew thingswere really bad when on the eighth night of no heat, no food, or contact from Sparrow, I startled awake to the sound of a small child crying.
My heart beat rapidly against my ribcage, my breaths puffing harshly through numb lips. Disoriented, I put my glasses on to look around the cold room for the source of what jarred me from my sleep. The only sounds I heard were the howl of the wind and the light shuddering of the windowpane.
Falling back onto the pillows, I turned to the nightstand as I always did when waking up over the last several days. No food. No water.
My gut felt hollow, my insides eating themselves. The faucet water was the only reason I was still alive. It at least kept the dehydration at bay.
And if it weren’t for the numerous hot showers, followed by dozing on the steamy bathroom floor, I likely would’ve frozen to death. I’d found a patchwork quilt folded on the closet shelf, but the room was too cold for it to have made a huge difference. Not even stuffing a towel around the cracks of the window had helped. The cold was determined to get in.
I’d considered Sparrow’s clothing more than once, but imagining the consequences of being caught layered in his things stopped me every time.
The chronic cough I’d developed started up again. The attack on my lungs was fierce and unending. It didn’t stop until I’d curled onto my side, clutching my ribs and dry heaving.
I didn’t need a mirror to know the wetness at the corner of my mouth was blood, nor a doctor to tell me the burning in my chest was due to an infection. I would die here, and there’d be no one to save Elliott.
I couldn’t keep my eyes open, which was for the best anyway. My heart ached less when I was asleep.
The small cry sounded again, and my eyelids flew open. I held my breath, not wanting the sudden loud rattling in my chest to interfere with my hearing. The cry was louder when it came again.
I thought I might faint by the time I’d made it out of bed. My body felt too heavy to carry me over to the door. I somehow managed, gripping the doorknob, twisting and yanking as if expecting it to miraculously open. The cry rose in volume.
Where was Sparrow? Why wasn’t he helping? Why was a child even here?
“I-I’m coming,” I stammered. “I’m coming.” I dropped to my knees, wheezing through the pain as I peered through the keyhole. Like before, all I could see was the door across the wide hallway, which seemed miles away.
The cry was an urgent sob now, eating away at me. Coughing, I crawled on hands and knees over to the nightstand, tearing the drawers open for anything I could find to pick the lock. They were still empty, and now my fear came from not being able to save the child the way I hadn’t saved Elliott.
Swaying to my feet, I turned over the other nightstand’s drawers, then headed for the closet. I ripped every item of clothing off its hanger, searching every pocket for something I could use. My mind was on the edge of splintering when I turned up nothing useful.
I considered the hangers themselves, but they weren’t the cheap, wiry kind. The metal hook would be impossible for me to bend, making it impossible to shove into the bedroom door’s lock.
I banged my shoulder against the doorframe on my way out of the closet, too desperate and focused to acknowledge the pain.
The armoire.I hadn’t checked the armoire.
Neat stacks of books were lined up inside. I flipped through each one, hurling them over my shoulder as I went, until empty shelves stared back at me. I thought maybe something of use might have been tucked between the inked pages, but there’d been nothing. Not even a bookmark.
“There has to be something,” I gritted out, feeling feral.
The crying stopped abruptly, and somehow that frightened me more. I got down on the floor, peering under the ancient piece of furniture, but the room was too dim for me to see anything. Stretching out on my stomach, I slid my arm beneath it, feeling around until a small piece of cold metal met my fingertips. I could’ve wept looking down at the paperclip I pulled free.
