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The first step is the hardest, when all I want to do is skip, run, and shout for freedom. Physically holding myself back, I step into an unknown future, knowing I’ll not surrender to that dungeon again without a fight.
We climb the stairs, but when we reach the top, it just ends. There’s no door or handle—the exit isn’t visible until she reaches around me and double taps the wall. It bounces back and reveals a hidden door.
Once we’re in the hallway, we pass several rooms on either side, their contents hidden by closed doors. The blackout curtains shroud the living room in darkness, an enclosure of secrecy masked behind pretty walls.
Sarah shuffles quickly, obviously nervous that I’m on the loose, and when we reach the bathroom, she shoves me in. “Sit down.” She points to the toilet.
When I do, she turns to start the bath water. The little voice in my head is constantly encouraging an attack, but practiced breathing keeps me calm enough to think rationally. I’ll only get one chance.
“Get undressed.” The water is to her liking, as she turns back to me in our smaller space with the command.
My muscles are stiff as I grip the hem and attempt to pull the shirt over my head. Not only am I large and in charge at this stage of pregnancy, but there’s not much activity to be had with a shackle. By the time I’m finished and back on the toilet, irritation is thick in the air.
She gestures me into the tub, and I follow easily, one foot after the other. The hot water burns the tender flesh around my ankle, causing a hiss of pain to slip through my lips.
Sarah rolls her eyes and pushes me the rest of the way down, grabbing a washcloth, and lathers it in soap. She roughly scrubs me down—neck, pits, breasts, torso, legs, and then the ankle. She purposely scrapes the wounded area, smirking when I whimper in pain.
When she does it again, my reaction is to jerk my leg away, splashing her with water. She wrestles my ankle toward her in anger, but I continue to struggle.
She squeals her frustration and elbows me in the face, catching me below the eye. My back hits the tile, as my hands cup my wounded face, trying to absorb the blow. The throbbing now alternates with that of my ankle, each sprinting for first place, winning a trophy of pain.
Shaking her head like she’s disappointed, she growls, “See what you make me do? Now lay back. I’m going to wash your hair.”
Not having another choice, I do as she says while she lathers and then rinses my hair. It’s clear that she’s not going to turn her back on me, but she is on edge, so the best bet is to piss her off enough to create an opportunity.And what better way to do that than taunt her with Jaxton?
“You know…” I start slowly, enticing her into the conversation. “Jaxton only pays attention to you because he feels sorry for you. He doesn’treallylove you—not the way he loves me.”
Anger ignites the shit-brown color of her wicked eyes as she glares down at me—face twitching—the vision of insanity. Her fingers twitch a fraction of a second before lashing out and wrapping tightly around my neck.Maybe I pushed her too far?The thought rushes forward as quickly as I’m shoved under water, a partial breath my only lifeline.
She’s trembling with rage, screaming obscenities that’re muffled by the water as precious oxygen escapes my nose. At first, panic set in, thinking she was going to take it too far. But then remember, that’s exactly what I want her to do.
After what seems like an appropriate amount of time, I jerk and twitch, then stop moving. My mouth slowly parts and eyes play dead, staring blankly at her distorted face, as my arms lose their fight and float in the water. I see the moment she realizes what she’s done—when the hatred turns to panic.
Her hands jerk free, drenching the floor in their haste as they thread through her hair with anxiety, horror plastered to her face. She didn’t plan on killing me. Not yet anyway. She needs my baby.
She abruptly runs from the room, creating mymoment. The moment I’ve waitedmonthsfor—the perfect opportunity. Surfacing quickly but quietly, I squat in the water and listen.
She’s rambling to herself hysterically. “She’s dead! Fuck, she’s dead. What’d I do?Fuck. Fuck!What am I going to do? The baby.The baby!”
Confirming her distraction, I snag the t-shirt she brought for me and quickly put it on, forgoing undergarments to save time. Once I’m clothed, I scan the bathroom for a weapon, and my best friend—the black bar—sits on the counter.
A mischievous smile curls my lips.What a fitting punishment. The bar is surprisingly lightweight for the punch it packs as I tighten my fist around the metal and prepare for the fight of my life.
The water barely ripples as I step free of the tub, using Sarah’s frantic pacing and muttering to cover any noise. When I peer around the corner, there’s no visible sign of her, so I slip down the hall, using the wall as a guide.
Her voice leads me into the dark living room, camouflaging the furthest corners of the space. She’s gazing intently at the floor, mumbling her insanity about two feet away from where I’m standing. Anticipation builds, simulating a lioness stalking its prey as I prepare myself to pounce.
Tail practically wagging, weapon held for striking, I slip around the corner. She doesn’t notice me immediately, and when she does, it’s too late. The strike lands true, as the bar crashes against her skull, knocking her to the ground. I follow her down, hitting her over and over, until she lays motionless. Standing quickly, I assess the damage, but when she moans, I hit her again to ensure she’s out and not faking. Blood is pooling under her head. Not enough to kill her, but enough to know she’s not getting up right away.
Now that the fight instinct is withering, flight consumes every fiber of my being, pumping adrenaline through my veins like a tube on a water slide. I jerk her pocket open, snatching the keys inside, and run to the front door.
No key needed as I fling the door open, sucking in the fresh air, and bolting from the porch. I’m surprised to see that it’s daylight, in a sprawling upper-class neighborhood, with people outside enjoying their day. All of them were completely unaware that their neighbor was a psycho, holding a pregnant woman hostage, and planning to kill her to steal her baby.
There’s a man across the street that startles when I run at him at full speed. His eyes widen with surprise, assessing me from head to toe, before realizing that something really fucked up is going on.
“Help! Help me!” I scream as his mouth gaps like a fish out of water.
“Holy shit. Are you okay?” His hands hover, unsure of touching. “Come inside and I’ll call the police.” He’s already got his cell to his ear.
