Page 2 of Agor the Merciless
It was a loud, terrifying “crack!”
The noise ripped through the garage, and for one suspended moment, nothing happened, then the fall began. The Chevrolet lurched downward, the car tilting as the lift collapsed and twisted in its descent, sending a shower of rust and metal particles raining down into her eyes as the massive weight of the vehicle dropped with increasing speed.
Zoe scrambled under the falling mass, reacting instinctively. She rolled left, pushing against the ground with her legs while her right arm extended outward, reaching for clear space beyond the chassis that threatened to crush her. Too slow. The frame pinned her arm to the floor. There was a sickening crunch as her limb was crushed. Pain shot from her fingers to her shoulder. It erased everything else – her name, the garage, her very existence – until there was only this moment, this unbearable weight pinning her to the ground.
She screamed and kept screaming as footsteps pounded toward where she lay. Her father and Rick appeared at the edge of her vision. Hope pierced through the pain for a second. They’d come for her, they were going to help her, save her.
They stopped short, their eyes fixing not on her trapped arm but on the damaged equipment, the car’s crumpled axle, thebroken hydraulic system that would be thousands of dollars in repairs.
“Dammit!” Her father’s face contorted with fury as he surveyed the scene. “That’s a three-thousand-dollar lift! And look at the axle on the Chevy!”
Rick’s boots stepped closer, but still not to her. “I told you that cable was worn! Why is she so careless?”
Zoe stared up at them, mouth open and tears streaming from her eyes, while the pain in her arm throbbed with her heartbeat. She started feeling something worse than the excruciating physical pain.
They hadn’t asked if she was okay.
They hadn’t moved to free her arm.
They were arguing about equipment costs.
The truth she’d been avoiding crystallized. Her gaze shifted from their angry faces to her trapped arm, bent at an impossible angle with bone torn through skin and blood pooling on the ground. She wasn’t family, she was inventory, a tool that had just broken. All those years of backhanded compliments, all those times they’d talked over her, around her, about her, suddenly aligned into perfect clarity: they’d never seen her as anything but an asset, a curiosity, something to be used until it broke down.
“…the insurance claim might not cover…”
“…should’ve replaced…”
“…her fault…”
“…customer’s going to be pissed…”
They moved in and out of her vision, gesturing at the damage, checking the broken cable, examining the car. The pain in her arm transformed into something with teeth and claws that tore at her flesh. Her vision narrowed, her thoughts faded one by one, until a single one remained: they weren’t going to help her. She wasn’t worth a phone call to 911. She had been abandoned.
Her breathing caught on a sob that turned into a whimper. They didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge the sound. Something hardened inside her chest, a resolve forming from agony and betrayal, solidifying into something unbreakable. If they wouldn’t save her, she would save herself. She shifted her weight, trying to relieve the strain on her trapped arm. Fresh agony bloomed in every cell of her body. She bit down on her lip as she starting moving her left hand to the pocket of her coveralls. Sweat beaded on her forehead and mingled with tears that blurred her vision. Her fingers, slick with blood, fumbled at the edge of her pocket. Finally, her fingertips brushed the edge of her phone, accidentally pushing it deeper into the fabric.
“No,” she whispered.
She took a breath, steeled herself, and plunged her hand into her pocket. The movement twisted her body and shifted her broken arm until black spots danced across her vision. She bit back another scream. Her fingers closed around the phone. Pulling it out felt like scaling a mountain. The device nearly slipped from her blood-slick grasp several times before she managed to bring it before her eyes.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. In the background, her father and Rick continued their assessment, debating repair costs, and scheduling problems, and customer reactions. They never said her name, never mentioned medical care, never acknowledged their daughter and sister lay bleeding on the floor.
Three taps.
9-1-1.
Chapter Two
The hospital room smelled of antiseptic. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow over mint-green walls. Zoe’s right arm, encased in a white cast, was propped on a pillow. Pain medication dulled the throbbing to a distant ache, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the crunch of her own bones, or the sight of her family arguing over repair costs while she bled on the garage floor.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, approaching her door. She wondered who would visit. Hospital staff? Surely not her family. The door pushed open, and Mark stepped into the room, his shirt crisp despite the late hour. He came empty-handed. No flowers, no card.
He paced between the bed and the door, his shoes squeaking on the linoleum. Five steps one way, turn, five steps back. His gaze fixed on everything but her – the machines, the window overlooking the parking lot, the clipboard at the foot of the bed.
“The doctors say I’ll need physical therapy.” Zoe’s voice was loud in the quiet room. “But I should regain full function.”
Mark stopped pacing. His shoulders were tense. Zoe didn’t get it. What was his problem? She was the one lying in a hospital bed.
“I just don’t get you, Zoe.” He shook his head, still not meeting her eyes. “This is what happens when you’re reckless. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t take care of herself. I need a partner, not a project.”
