Page 20 of Blindsided
“Here is a better question,” I pipe up. “Why thefuckdo you carry a nose plug around?”
He ignores me and looks at Rory. “Got any tape?”
Rory nods. “Yeah. In the car.”
“Grab the hat too,” Declan says as Rory jumps up and starts to sprint to where the car is parked.
I can’t move a muscle beneath the weight of the sand. Panic rises in my chest as I realize how completely helpless I am.
“You’re not actually planning to leave me here?” I ask, trying to keep the fear from my voice.
Rory returns with a roll of duct tape in his hand and looks to Declan with the same question in his eyes. “We are leaving him here, right?”
Declan nods and stands, brushing the sand from his expensive trousers. He studies me with cool detachment. “I’ll come back. Eventually.”
“Declan!” I shout, but he’s already walking away. “You can’t do this! There are... birds and shit!”
“Think of it as a spa treatment,” Rory says as he tears a strip of tape off the roll. “Sand exfoliation.”
“I hate you both!” I scream. Then Rory slaps the tape over my mouth.
“We’ll be back in a few hours,” Declan says over his shoulder, not even turning around. “Use the time wisely.”
Rory gets up and starts to follow him, and I sit there in disbelief as they climb into the rental car.
Lucky for me, though, I had the foresight to lick the skin around my mouth and keep it open before Rory silenced me.
The morning sun offers little warmth as a cloud passes overhead, casting me in shadow as I push on the tape with my tongue. I manage to free one side and blow on it. Still stuck to my skin, it dangles from the side of my face, but at least my mouth is free.
“Fuck,” I whisper to myself as a crow lands nearby, looking at me with its beady eyes. It hops closer, tilting its head as if thinking I might make a tasty snack.
“I swear to God, if you shit on me...”
The car door opens, and Rory makes his way towards me.
“You’re in luck,” he says, and relief pours through me until I see what he’s holding in his hands. “Not only did Declan find another nose plug and earplugs, but he also found this hose too!”
“Why the hell would Declan even have those things?” I ask, trying to twist my head away as Rory kneels beside me. “Is he some kind of professional swimmer I don’t know about?”
He laughs, and I notice a pen fall out of his pocket. If I had a free hand, I’d have stabbed him in the thigh with it simply because he was enjoying my discomfort. “You’d be surprised what Declan keeps in his emergency kit. Man’s prepared for everything.”
Before I can protest further, he grabs my face, fingers digging into my cheeks until my mouth pops open. He shoves the hose between my lips.
“Bite down,” he orders. “And for God’s sake, don’t let it go.”
I clamp my teeth around the plastic tube, heart hammering against my ribs as he forces the nose plug onto my nostrils. The pressure makes my eyes water. Next come the earplugs, pushed firmly into my ear canals until the world goes muffled and distant.
“Can you hear me?” Rory’s voice sounds like he’s talking underwater.
I grunt around the hose, which I take asconfirmation enough for him. He stands up and begins shoveling more sand over my body. The weight increases across my chest, making each breath a labor. Sand creeps up my neck, then over my chin. I fight back panic as it covers my mouth, leaving only the hose protruding.
The last thing I see is Rory’s smirking face before I squeeze my eyes shut. Sand cascades over my face, plunging me into darkness.
The weight is suffocating. Each breath through the narrow hose feels inadequate, my lungs straining against their sandy prison. I can’t hear anything beyond the thundering of my own pulse, can’t see anything but blackness. Time stretches into an eternity of shallow breaths and mounting claustrophobia.
Is this what drowning feels like? I’ve spent years drowning myself in alcohol, but this—this visceral panic, this helplessness—this is different.
I try counting to keep myself sane. One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi... By the time I reach three hundred, my tongue is dry as sandpaper, and my jaw aches from clenching the hose. Has it been minutes or hours? The uncertainty is complete.
