Page 14 of Bound By Water
Think, damn it.
Tapered chair legs. An idea pops into my head. Could I slide the ropes off the chair if I stand? Scooting to the edge of the seat, I carefully place my weight on my feet and stand up as far as I can. Hunched over, I jerk my arms and the chair up and down. The skinny chair legs move the tiniest bit. Elated, I do it again. And again. Sweat drips down my face to the floor below, but I don’t stop. Time slides by until finally the chair legs slip free, giving me enough room to maneuver. I use one foot then the other to shove the loosened ropes off my legs, then do a little dance to get the blood moving in my feet again.
With a swipe of my shoulder, I wipe the stinging sweat from my eyes so I can see better and figure out what to do next. Lionel taught me to solve problems one step at a time. Feet are free, but I can barely walk with the rest of me tied tightly to the chair. Still hunched over, I shuffle over to the sink to peer inside.
My eyes immediately focus on the faucet, and my tongue glides across my cracked lips. Freedom first, water second, I promise myself, turning my gaze to the bottom of the sink. A bowl. Spoon. My eyes light up when they see the last item. A glass. That would work. Now, how do I get it, and more importantly, break off a piece large enough to use?
Back aching fiercely, I decide to sit while I figure this one out. Could I shimmy myself up onto the counter and grab it with my teeth? Maybe, but the grime coating its surface makes me grimace, and I’d have to smash the glass with it in my mouth.
My only other option is to take off my shoes and socks and use my feet to grab it. I think about it for a second. It could work. To test it out, I lift my feet up and over the sink. This is the answer. I swing them back to the floor.
Kicking off my shoes, I use my toes to shimmy off my socks. Barefoot, I slide down in the chair until my butt is touching the edge and lift my legs up and over the lip of the sink again. I move them side to side, but I can’t reach the glass. Maybe I need a few more inches. I lift my butt off the chair into a bridge. Pain shoots across my back, begging me to stop, but I refuse. My toes graze the top of the glass. With a grunt, I shove my hips up another painful inch and stretch farther. It works. Carefully wrapping both feet around the top of the glass, I grab it. Pausing for a second to make sure it’s secure, I then lift my feet and swing them in front of me.
Now comes the hard part. I place the side of the glass against the sharp metal edge of the Formica counter and take a deep breath. Closing my eyes, I tap the glass against it, harder and harder, until it breaks. Sharp pain streaks across my arch and inhale sharply. A quick glance at my feet reveals a small, jagged piece of glass in my foot. I shake my head. I’ll worry about that later. The top of the shattered glass is one large piece with sharp edges. Perfect. I smile.
I wipe my face with my shoulder again. Now comes the hard part. Tongue between my lips, I slowly lower my feet until my fingers can grasp the big piece. Once I’m sure I have it, I drop my feet to the floor. Cramps in my hamstrings make me grit my teeth, but after a few seconds, the muscles loosen, and I can shuffle closer to the pool of moonlight.
Thankfully, they only tied my wrists to the chair, not my hands.
Hunching over my right arm, I twist my wrist as far as I can and start sawing at the closest piece of rope. Tiny pieces of glass rain down on my wrist, grinding into the tender skin, but I don’t stop. I can’t. I need to get out of here before someone comes back.
CHAPTER8
WILLA
Hours go by. Every minute is excruciating. My back burns from holding its hunched position. My fingers are numb from gripping the glass, which sweat has made slippery, but I don’t dare let go, not even to dry my hand. I’m so close. There are only a few miniscule strands of rope left to cut. I lift my shoulder and wipe my blurry eyes with my sleeve. Just a little more.
Sun begins to stream through the window. Daylight. Fear fills me.
Another piece gone. Sawing takes so much time. Desperate, I slip the final two strands under the tip of the sharp glass and pull upward as hard as I can. Blood seeps from my palm, mixing with the sweat, but the bits of rope are no match for my determination and, finally, snap under the pressure.
Not willing to lose the glass, I toss it in my lap and yank against the strands. Loose now, the remnants release their hold. I slide my arm out and immediately move to untying the knots holding my other arm to the chair.
Adrenaline and fear rise as the sun moves higher in the sky. I yank my arm out and stand. The world spins around me, but I manage to lift my foot to the chair and remove the shard of glass stuck in it. Thankfully, the cut doesn’t look too deep. Despite the blood, I slip into my shoes and socks, stumble to the door, and drag it open.
Trees. Everywhere. As far as I can see. In disbelief, I step into the clearing and turn in a circle. Nothing. It’s only me and the brown shack in the middle of the fucking woods. I walk around the side of the little wooden structure and spot the first sign of hope. Two long ruts carved into a path. A driveway that looks like it goes on forever, but it must lead to a road.
Roads mean cars and people. Right? For a brief second, I think about going back to get a drink of water from the faucet, but fear and the passage of time prevent me from returning. Biting my lip, I move to the edge of the driveway, nearest to the trees, and put one foot in front of the other. Glad I’m wearing my tennis shoes.
An hour goes by and no road. I cross my arms to ward off the chill in the air. It will be much colder once the sun sets. An edge of despair creeps up on me. There seems to be no end in sight. Humming a cheery song, I trudge on, unwilling to give up, hoping my body doesn’t give out. I remind myself that a person can go days without food. Water is my main issue. A body begins to shut down without that vital substance. It was stupid to let fear stop me from getting a drink.
Silently berating myself, the new sound doesn’t register at first. It’s not until I notice a flash of black in the distance that I see the truck and hear the slight roar of its massive engine. It’s coming this way. Terror fills me. My heart slams in my chest. Turning, I run into the woods and crouch behind a tree. Dirt spews up, choking me, as it flies by, but it doesn’t stop.
I slide around the tree to peek at it. It’s them. When they’re out of sight, I push my trembling legs to move quickly. Half shuffling, half jogging, I fix my gaze forward while keeping my ears peeled for the sound of them returning. A sob escapes.
My head swivels to the forest on my left, but there is nothing to guide me, and I’m too afraid to move away from my only clear point of direction. The driveway. Rumbling fills the air, making the choice for me. They’re coming back this way.
I turn to the left. The engine drops to a low throttle. I look over my shoulder and see it crawling along, looking for me. I slow, moving from tree to tree, trying to stay hidden. The engine cuts off. I hear a shout. Without thinking, I shove away from the protection at my back and push myself to move.
Seconds later, a hard body slams into me, taking me to the ground, and I scream. We slide along the floor of the forest. Trent’s expensive cologne wraps around me, and I’m taken back to the day we met. Déjà vu. Except this time, our collision wasn’t an accident.
Instead of getting off me, he sits up and pins me to the hard, dirty ground. Flashing a victorious smile, he shouts, “Got you!” Then laughs. “Sorry for leaving you so long. Had to make sure dear old dad went back to DC first.”
It makes me want to puke. Glaring up at him, I swallow the knot of fear in my throat and spit in his handsome face. “What the hell are you doing? I don’t care if this is a stupid football prank or whatever. It’s gone too far. Take me home.”
I know it’s not a prank, but I’m hoping he thinks I’m too dumb to realize it.
A long, tanned finger smooths the hair out of my eyes and tucks it behind my ear. “Good try, but you forget, I know how smart you are.” Pounding feet brings his head around, and he eyes the guy behind him. “About time. Get some rope from the truck.”
