I’ve tried everything: removing the hinges on the door, breaking the chain on the latch. There are no windows in here, no way to track the passage of time, but I feel like it’s been a day at least. How much longer do I have before he’s finished with me?
I’ve been thinking a lot about him—the man keeping me here. You know the most fucked-up thing about our last encounter? Not that he kidnapped me or threatened to kill me. It was that milkshake. I cannot stop thinking about that stupid milkshake. I think that’s the first thing anyone’s made for me since my mom left. Not for themselves or their families, with me getting the leftovers, but prepared specifically for me. He even remembered my favorite flavor.
Probably because it’s intended to be my last meal.
Fuck him. I’m not going down like this. If I can’t escape, I can at least fight back. I just need to find something to use as a weapon. I’ll take another go at the screws.
I start for the opposite wall; that’s when I hear it:
Creeeak.
I take a few steps back.
Creeeak.
Press my foot down hard a few times.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
The floorboard’s loose. Dropping to my knees, I use what’s left of my fingernails to twist the screws out. The board comes up easily, revealing a narrow crawl space underneath. I attempt to pry up the ones on either side, but they’re firmly bolted into the foundation. The planks are wide, but even so, it’s going to be a tight, maybe even impossible, fit. If I’m able to squeeze myself down, there’s a good chance I won’t be coming back up.
And if I get stuck in that crawl space, there’ll be nothing to stop him from nailing the floorboard back in place, leaving me to die of dehydration, starvation, or asphyxiation.
I stare at the screw in my palm. Maybe it would be smarter to wait. I could hide behind the door, ambush him when he returns. The drug’s mostly worn off; I wouldn’t be as wobbly this time. But I’d also no longer have the advantage of surprise. No, if there’s any possibility of choosing flight over fight, I need to take it.
I nudge one leg through the open floorboard, the rough edges snagging on my jeans, then the other. I need to twist my hips from side to side to get through—shocking because I didn’t even think Ihadhips—and the wood scratches up the sides of my torso until I’m sure my T-shirt’s stained with blood. When my back’s finally flat against the hard-packed dirt, I flip myself over onto my stomach. Pain ricochets through my kneecap. There are support posts, I realize, installed throughout the space, making it much, much harder to move around.
None of that matters.
Because right in front of me, a square of light casts a bright, white glow across the floor.
A vent.
Leading outside. And all I have to do to get there is shuffle myself forward. My arms are pinned tight against my rib cage, but I manage to worm my way through the crawl space—the box of light getting bigger andbrighter by the moment. My wriggling sends up clouds of dust that clog my nostrils and make my eyes water, but there’s no way for me to rub them. So, I keep going.
I’m almost on top of the vent before I notice the crisscross of wire barricading the hole. It looks flimsy enough; I should be able to kick it out, no problem. But when I try to reposition myself so that my feet are facing the vent, there’s not enough room. My limbs keep banging against the support beams. There’s only one way I can go, and that’s forward. I try ramming the top of my scalp against the netting as hard as I can—so hard, grunts claw their way out of my throat—but it doesn’t do any good.
Of course it doesn’t.
A desperate sob wracks its way through me. Of course it fucking doesn’t. Why shouldn’t this be yet another example of how every time I’m this close,thisclose, to freedom, some man will padlock the door, grate up the vents, choke me with drugs, until I have no choice but to sink into a corner and wait for death? Tears pour down my cheeks, wetting the dirt, because somehow, I always knew it would end here. Me, down in a hole, with no one coming to help.
Heavy footsteps approach the shack.
My heart starts hammering in my chest. He’ll see the pried-up floorboard and know I’m down here. I press my cheek against the dirt and squeeze my eyes shut anyway, like that will keep me safe. The padlock snaps open; the chain clinks to the ground. The door creaks.
He’s inside.
He walks straight to the open gap in the floor. I wait for him to say something—to threaten me, taunt me. Instead, his footsteps cross the floor again, over the threshold and back outside.
He doesn’t lock the door.
The scream builds in my chest. I thrash around in that narrow enclosure, bashing my limbs against the beams until splinters and dust rain down on me. Until my eyes are almost swollen shut from bits of debris, myelbows and knees undoubtedly black and blue. That’s when I let it all out. I scream with so much force, it feels like my ribs will crack open, like my insides will spill out onto the dirt.
No wonder he didn’t taunt me with words.
This is so much worse.
He comes back after god knows how long—a few minutes, a few hours, possibly. He walks across the floor, each footstep pressing another sob out of my chest. I hate giving him the satisfaction, but it doesn’t matter: The thought of being buried alive is enough to break me.
