Terri Austin - Diners, Dives & Dead Ends

I needed to keep my body moving.

Out of breath, I slid back to the floor, sitting in the butterfly position, with my bound feet pulled as close to my butt as I could manage, my knees slightly spread. I began trying to work the knot at my ankles. Whenever I felt myself drifting off, I hit my face. Hard. The pain helped keep me focused.

I drifted between a groggy state of exhaustion and a jittery state of panic. The shadows moved over the floor and I knew it must be afternoon. I didn’t know how much more time I had left, but I had to get these damn knots undone before Steve came back.

I needed to break the glass in the window and use a shard to cut through the cords, but I had nothing to stand on. The light bulb, however, wasn’t that far above my head. If I jumped, I could reach it. Maybe bat it with my hands. Whack hard enough, maybe I could smash it against the ceiling.

I shimmied my way up the wall again and took a second to let my legs and feet get past the pain and prickling sensations. Then with all the concentration I could muster — which was not much, because, dear Lord, I was so tired — I hopped to the middle of the room and jumped as high as I could, my arms over my head swinging at the light bulb piñata.

It took four tries, but I got it swaying back and forth. Like playing tether ball in grade school, I had to jump and swat at just the right time.

It was so close to hitting the ceiling, but missed by just a hair. I kept at it. Jump, hit, jump, hit. Over and over.

I didn’t break it against the ceiling. It finally broke by banging into the metal hook on the bungee cord. Sparks flew, and so did little shards of glass. Turning my head, I covered my face with my upraised arms to avoid getting cut.

Yes, I had done it! Now I just had to saw the cord off my wrists. I sank back to the floor and found a shard that was about an inch and a half long. Sitting in the butterfly position again, I wedged the shard in between the coils around my ankles. I cut my hand in the process, but didn’t care.

I tried to saw through the cord at my wrists quickly, but broke the delicate glass. Muttering a string of swear words, I picked up another shard, and pulled the bungee cord against it more slowly this time. I checked my progress. The cord was slightly frayed. It took patience, but eventually, I made it halfway through the cord.

With every ounce of strength I possessed, I tried to pull my hands apart. Still, nothing. Back to rubbing.

I had no concept of time, but the sunlight faded and shadows lengthened across the room. I prayed I would get free. I made deals with God as I continued to saw through the cord.

Minutes passed, maybe an hour, and then the small area I had been working on severed. I was so relieved, tears stung my eyes.

I again tried to pull my wrists apart. They moved maybe half an inch. Still, success.

A door slammed in the distance. Panic bolted through me. Steve was home.

My whole body trembled. What would he do when he realized I tried to break free?

I looked around the dim room for the largest piece of glass I could find. There was a curved piece about two inches wide lying close to the door.

I scooted my butt across the floor. I reached for the glass, but my hands were shaking so badly, I dropped it twice. On the third time, I held it tightly in my right hand. It felt awkward, thin and fragile, and I was so afraid I was going to drop it again. Then I heard the floorboard above me creak.

Holding the glass as tightly as my bloodless fingers would allow, I quickly scooted next to the door, positioning myself behind it, and slid up the wall. I clung to the piece of glass, knowing it could be the only thing between me and death. And seeing Steve Gunderson’s stupid face was not going to be the last thing I saw before I died.

I heard the lock slide, and I prepared myself. I’d only get one shot. The door opened and he walked into the room. “Rose?”

I shoved the door with my forearms as hard as I could, knocking him off balance. He stumbled forward and before he could straighten, I hurled myself at him, my weight pushing him to the floor. I landed on his back, slashed it with the shard.

Steve screamed and tried to buck me off of him.

I dropped the glass.

But I was in a frenzy of anger and fear. I bit the side of the neck. Hard. I tasted blood.

He reached back and pulled my hair. I retaliated by grabbing his hair, as much as I could anyway, in my numb, bound hands.

When he tried to stand up, I pulled a Mike Tyson and bit his ear as hard as I could. A chunk of cartilage came off in my mouth. I gagged and spit it on the floor.

He flailed and screeched. I didn’t let go of his hair, but he let go of mine as he covered his bloody, severed ear with one hand.

Using his hair as leverage, I pounded his forehead into the cement. Over and over and over until he stopped moving.

I stretched out on top of him, panting and wheezing. I rolled off of him and sat up. I kicked at him with my feet to make sure he wasn’t going to hop up like Michael Myers in the Halloween movies.

Steve was unconscious. And bleeding. Blood pooled around his head.

I scooted toward the door, which was still half way open. Using the doorjamb, I managed to stand. I grabbed the knob with my hands and hopped backward. I fell on my butt twice, my eyes never leaving Steve’s prone, bleeding body. I shut the door and slid the lock in place.

I leaned against the cement wall of the stairwell. My chest heaving, I gagged, and threw up what little I had in me.

I lifted my arms and twisted my head, wiping my mouth on the sleeve of my sweatshirt, before I turned around and sat my butt on the first stair. Leaning my head against the wall, I just sat there, every muscle in my body aching. I knew I was going to have to get up those steps, but it looked like Mount Everest to me.

I’m not sure how long it took, but I finally I gathered my strength to move and slowly climbed the stairs, using my legs to push my ass to the next step. Just make it up the stairs, I told myself over and over.

I took a few minutes to catch my breath when I finally reached the top. Then, as best I could, I clung to the wrought iron railing, and hopped up the last stair. The door to the family room was open.

I rolled over on my side and tried to catch my breath. Steve’s house was small. It looked like it had been built in the seventies. Or at least that was the last time it had been updated. Brown shag carpeting and ugly flocked wallpaper. The family room held a flat screen TV and one recliner.

Gathering my strength, I crawled like an inchworm across the floor to the kitchen, but the carpet burned my belly and arms, even through my sweatshirt. I flipped over, sat up, and went back to the old butt scoot.

I made it to the kitchen and stood up using the refrigerator as leverage. I glanced at the harvest gold stove and the wallpaper covered in red and green mushrooms. On the gold laminate counter next to the phone, I spied my purse.

Hopping a couple of times, I unzipped the bag with my teeth, and upended it on the countertop. My wallet, keys, lip gloss, tampons, and various receipts went flying. I leaned down and managed to grab a pen with my tongue and work it into my mouth, then reached for the phone. It skidded out of my hands, landed next to the garbage can. Sinking to the floor, I snagged for it and struggled to sit back up. It was difficult trying to flip open the phone with my hands still tied, but I managed. With the pen clenched between my teeth, I dialed and hit send. I spit the pen out on the floor.

“Help me.”

Within fifteen minutes Sullivan kicked in Steve’s front door. “Rose?”

“In here,” I said. My voice sounded scratchy and faint.