Page 91 of Inside Silence
Even when moments later I can hear him moving, footsteps on the concrete floor coming toward me. I start chanting in my head.
If I move…I’m dead. If I move…I’m dead
It’s so hard not to react when he lightly kicks my foot. Then he kicks it harder, but I don’t cry out and I don’t move, even though it hurts and I want to puke.
His boots crunch on the rough floor as I can feel him crouch down beside me, his hand brushing over my hair.
“Didn’t exactly plan it this way, but this may just work out perfectly,” I hear him mumble, as he removes the hair clip holding back my ponytail.
That was the last thing Mom gave me.
She’d come home drunk the night before, stumbling around the house, knocking into furniture, and throwing up all over the carpet. I had to clean her up, help her in bed, scrub the carpet, and straighten the house. The next day I came home from school and she gave me that clip, telling me I was a good girl for looking after her.
I almost break my silence to plead with him not to take it.
“Almost time…” he whispers.
Then I hear him get up and walk away from me. More rustling in the corner, before the footsteps seem to grow more faint and finally disappear.
I’m not sure how much time has passed; it could be minutes, or hours.
The only thing I know is that it felt like forever.
I’ve been afraid to try and move, worried he might come back and catch me awake. I don’t know what he meant by “Almost time,” but I have a feeling it can’t be good, and that time is fast running out.
This time, opening my eyes is a little easier, and the tingling I’ve been feeling in my fingers and feet the past little while must’ve been the drug wearing off. I’m able to lift my head and shift my arms underneath me to push up. They feel like lead, but at least I can move them now.
Sitting up, I brace my back against the brick wall and scan the space around me.
A muted groan startles me, but it doesn’t come from the person lying in the corner, it’s coming from behind some kind of dresser on the other side of the room.
“Carson?” I whisper.
It sounded like it could be him.
I’m able to get myself onto my hands and knees and start crawling toward the sound.
“Carson!”
He’s lying on his back, a puddle of blood under his head, but his eyes are open.
“Tate…”
“I’m right here.” I move closer and carefully touch his face.
“You’ve gotta get outta here,” he mumbles, his speech so slurred I can barely make out what he’s saying.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Gotta get help…”
There’s no smile or dimple on his face now. He looks like he can barely keep his eyes open, and I’m really scared he’s hurt badly.
I nod. “Okay. I’ll try to find a way out.”
This time when I try, I can actually stand up. I’m a little wobbly, but with my hand against the wall for support, I manage to go search for an exit.
I try to ignore the still figure in the corner. He hasn’t moved at all, and if he’s already dead, I don’t want to know.
