The apologies continued as he got to his feet, and wasting no time, he shuffled to the small table by the door and began to disinfect and dress the self-inflicted wound to his hand. With each episode, his recovery time grew shorter.
Eve didn’t understand his bizarre behavior, but she’d come to learn the pattern of it. Stage one—the scoring of his palm, the bloody mess of his masturbation, the pleading until he came. Stage two—the crying and apologies. Stage three—the cleansing and bandaging.
Face still turned to the wall, she heard his approach, and hard as she tried not to, she flinched as he reached her. “Jellybean, I’m so sorry. You know I am. Please, look at me.”
She refused, and he attempted to cup her chin with his bandaged hand. Revulsion seizing her, she shrank away. And because it would make him desperate, she kept her eyes from his.
“Please, look at me!” he begged, moving closer.
This was the final stage.
Her stage.
The one she looked forward to every time he entered the room.
With a surge of helpless rage, she drove up from her knees to start the fight she knew was coming, and left hand balled into a fist, she attempted an uppercut. He ducked his head to deflect, his forehead smashing into her cheek with enough force to cause her vision to fuzz.
Despite the accidental head-butt, her punch landed, and the sharp bite of teeth told her she’d done some damage. He scrambled out of reach, and eyes wide with shock, he wiped the blood from his lips with trembling fingers.
His whispered, “I’m sorry,” gave little comfort as he backed his way out the door.
Seconds later, the click of the automatic lock as it engaged prompted Eve to move as fast as possible. Not because Bryan would return soon, she knew he wouldn’t be back for hours. He stayed away for a longer period whenever she initiated a fight.
Knuckles stinging, she flexed her fingers and prepared to get to work. With the lights on a timer, she had fifteen minutes before they turned off, and she was plunged into a black so thick she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.
A shot of terror made her heart thump against the wall of her chest, and her lungs constricted, cutting off her oxygen supply. Too bad. She had no time to spare. Not even to catch her breath.
Shoving her fear of the dark out of her head, she dropped to the floor beside the bed.
The concrete scraped at her shins as she struggled to lift the plastic-covered mattress one-handed. Wrist shackled to a rail running along the wall just far enough to allow her to use the toilet, her right arm hung in the air, completely useless.
Conscious of the limited amount of time she had, she ignored her aches and pains and managed to raise the mattress high enough to wedge her left shoulder under it. Pushing up from her knees gave her access to the flat metal slats welded horizontally from rail to rail down the center of the frame.
With her free hand, she bent the bar she’d been working on for the last three days. Moving it up and down and back and forth at a rapid pace. After careful examination of the slats she could reach, she’d chosen the one with a hairline crack near its middle. Stronger a few days ago than now, Eve had pushed and pulled until it had started to give.
Yesterday, she’d broken through at the weak point.
Today, she’d break the bar free from the frame.
She counted off the seconds as she worked. At the six-and-a-half-minute mark, bicep screaming from the exertion, a two-foot piece of metal gave way. Her heart jumped for joy, but she had no time to celebrate. She had to move fast.
Scalp prickling with anticipation, she scrambled to her feet and ran her cuff along the rail. When she reached the toilet, she scissored her legs over the bowl to get to the opposite side. Fingers clamped around the bar, she leaned as far as she could toward the table by the door.
The cold steel of the handcuff dug into the bruises around her wrist, keeping her from her goal. With a cry, she pulled harder, stretched farther, and still came up eight inches too short. Even with the extension in her hand, the knife—so close to the edge of the table—remained out of reach.
Refusing to give up, she used the jagged edge of the slat to poke a hole in the fabric of her dress, and with aching fingers, she ripped the wide ruffle from around the bottom. She dunked the material in the toilet to give it some weight before wrapping it around the metal, leaving a trail of dripping fabric dangling from one end.
Her shoulder ached, and her arm muscles pulled as she stretched her body toward the door. Extension in hand, she swung the loose length of fabric. With a heavysplat, it landed on the table next to the blade.
C’mon, c’mon, please!Teeth clenched, she tried again, closer this time, but still a miss. Eve breathed deep and held the air in her lungs. On her third attempt, the fabric snagged the knife, and she dragged it off the table. It fell to the floor and bounced, its momentum sliding it closer.
Hurry!Her mother’s voice urged her to her knees.
Dropping fast, she balled the loose material around one end of the slat to form a club, and holding the other end in a vice grip, she reached as far as she could. It was enough. Inch by excruciating inch, she moved the knife toward her until finally, with a shout of triumph, she released the bar, and her fingers closed around the smooth wood of the polished handle.
The weight of the knife in her hand and the thin line of blood on the blade was an electric shock that restarted the clock. Fear once again pumping through her veins, she transferred the knife to her right hand and grabbed the makeshift club with her left. Although she’d lost count, she knew she had precious little time left.
She rose to her feet and backtracked over the toilet. The sight of the water in the bowl made her hesitate for a second, undecided if she should risk taking the time to rinse the semen from her dress.
