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I barely got a chance to really let that pain sink in, though, before a hand was grabbing a fistful of my hair, and yanking me roughly back by it, the pain igniting over my scalp, making my eyes water as I was forced to look over and see my mom tied to a chair. And a man standing beside her.
I didn’t even give him a second thought as my gaze landed on my mom, sitting there in her cream nightgown, looking ethereal and beautiful with her hair streaming over her shoulders.
But there was tape over her mouth.
And the way her shoulders were arched back said she was bound tightly.
Mom.
I meant to call it out, but I think my lips only mouthed the words as her worried gaze moved over me.
Her eyes went small at that, though, almost as if to say ‘Why would you come here, my sweet girl?’
Because that was exactly what she would have said if she wasn’t gagged.
“I’m kind of glad you didn’t kill the bitch now,” the man next to my mom said, finally dragging my gaze away from her to look at him. “She’s kind of pretty. Figure we can have some fun with her while we wait for lover boy to come looking for her.”
I’d like to say that my stomach didn’t drop, that fear didn’t slither through me at those words, at that threat.
But that would be a lie.
“Can take our turns on her while her mom watches,” the man who had me by the hair said. “Then take turns on mom while she watches,” he added.
This time, it wasn’t fear that built in my system.
Oh, no.
It was rage.
It boiled up, hot and bubbling, in my belly, and made its way upward and outward, until it was sizzling in my veins, until my face felt heated, and my skin on fire.
It was almost as if the same reaction moved through my mom right then too.
Because I watched and realized that her shoulders weren’t arched back like that because of the binds.
Oh, no.
It was because she’d been trying to get out of them.
And succeeding.
I watched almost in slow motion as she suddenly stood and twisted, the movement lightening quick and graceful, all those years of yoga and pilates clearly paying off.
She swung out an arm, grabbing something off the old metal desk attached to the wall of the garage.
I didn’t know what it was until I saw her turn again, swinging out, and plunging the screwdriver into the man’s neck.
Everything went from slow motion to almost fast-forward then.
The man reached out, panicked, yanking the screwdriver out, a movement that had blood spurting everywhere, splattering all over my mother’s pretty nightgown, on her arms, her hair, her face.
His hands rose, grabbing at his neck, trying to stop the bleeding.
But it was too late.
He was already collapsing.
Down to his knees, then his face.
