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That would raise flags to anyone he crossed paths with.
So that was the new goal.
As soon as I stopped tasting my own blood.
"Fuck," I hissed, pushing off the ground, forcing myself to stand.
I should have been acutely aware of my various injuries.
But all I could feel was anger.
That this was happening to me.
That I'd let not only one, but two, men close to me who turned out to be monsters.
The anger was good, though.
It distracted me from the pain, but also the very annoying urge I had to, well, pee.
There was a bucket in the far corner. And I wasn't sure if that was meant to work as my makeshift bathroom or not. But I wasn't quite that desperate yet.
What I needed was to find myself some sort of weapon.
I circled the water heater and HVAC systems, silently cursing Harry the cricket for moving into my utility room. If he hadn't, maybe I would have known more about these sorts of things. Like what I could take off without scalding or shocking or seriously injuring myself. The hot water heater just seemed too risky. I mean the thing had a burner in it and shit. I didn't want to burn my hands, and make it impossible for me to defend myself. And from what I could tell, the only removable part of the HVAC system was the filter. Fat lot of good that would do me.
My head angled up, feeling dizziness grip me, making me wonder if being lightheaded was a symptom of a concussion. He'd certainly hit me hard enough to cause one. Not that it mattered. I could be bleeding internally, and the diagnosis wouldn't mean anything if I couldn't get myself free to get it dealt with. There were some exposed pipes in the ceiling, but it didn't look like there were any connections I could undo to break a bit of one free. And trying to knock one around would no doubt alert Blake to my plans.
"Think," I hissed to myself.
Maybe I was thinking too big.
Small weapons could be just as good as large ones. They might even have been better, since they could be concealed until you found the perfect moment to use them.
The problem was, there was nothing in the room except me, and the water and HVAC systems, and... oh.
The bucket.
The five-gallon bucket.
That had a thick metal handle.
Metal.
That could be useful.
Decision made, I nearly flew at the bucket, fingers working the folded ends that kept the wire attached.
I worked at it until the tips of my fingers broke open from scraping the end of the wire, but felt a surge of relief as one side finally gave.
Sweat beaded on my brow and dripped down my back by the time I got the second side free.
With a little bit more work, I had the wire twisted tightly to form a smaller, but firmer instrument.
Then I dragged myself back toward my side of the room, choosing a low spot in the darker corner to lean down and start rubbing the edge of the metal against the wall to try to sharpen it up.
It didn't need to be like a knife.
It just needed an end sharp enough to stab into a soft body part.
I just needed to inflict enough pain to catch him off-guard for long enough to get past him, lock the door, and run for my life.
I wasn't sure how long I sat there sharpening, but it felt like time was on an endlessly slow loop. And yet, somehow, when I heard footsteps coming, it also felt way too fast, like I could have used another half an hour to ensure my makeshift shank was sharp enough.
But there was no more time.
With trembling fingers, I slipped the weapon into my pocket, then curled my hands into fists to hide the damage to my fingertips.
This was it.
This was my one shot.
I couldn't fuck it up.
I needed to get him close to me.
Which meant it was probably best to piss him off.
He would approach me to beat on me again.
"Are you done being a self-important bitch?" Those were his first words to me, clearly still bitter about my rejecting him.
"Oh, Blake," I said, forcing a smile even if it hurt. "Don't you know me well enough by now to know that I will never be done being a self-important bitch."
To that, I got a snort.
Damnit.
"I guess that's true. Always did think a little too highly of yourself. Like you were better than everyone around you."
"That is your interpretation, I guess," I said. I refused to agree with him on that.
"No man was ever good enough for you. Even when they treat you like gold."
If he was referring to himself, treating me "like gold" meant he'd opened the door and offered to pay for dinner. Just offered, mind you. He didn't insist. And in the end, I paid for my portion.
