Losing the vodka to the toilet bowl makes me sad. Hopefully I got most of the alcohol in my bloodstream before that happened, because today’s going to be a fucker. Then again, Sal might do me a favor and kill me.
“Hurry up,” Sal yells, pounding twice on the door. I roll my eyes, flushing the toilet and rinsing my mouth out under the fancy tap. This guy’s got to be rich, I think, because everything in this house stinks of money. Even the chick in his bed looked like an upmarket slut. I take a little bit of toothpaste from the tube on the counter and rub it around my teeth to get rid of the vomit taste, and then my eyes are scanning every square inch of the room, looking for a weapon.
I could squirt shampoo at him. Nope, too messy and difficult. He’s taken the razor. Could I strangle him with a towel? Negatory. He’d strangle me with it. He seems to enjoy cutting off my air supply.
I’m coming up blank when my eyes settle on the toilet cistern, and more specifically, the heavy porcelain lid that covers it.
Excitedly, I grip each side with my fingers and pull up, testing the weight of the thick slab. I can definitely maneuver it.
Lucky I’m a fucking actress, I think. I let the lid slide back into place and then wash my hands in the sink. I dry them off before going back for some more water—not much, just a little sip that I hold with my tongue against the roof of my mouth. I unlock the bathroom door and pull it open to see Sal leaning against the doorframe.
“I hope you used air freshener,” he says with a smirk. I don’t respond, other than to put my hand to my mouth. Game on, motherfucker. I make my eyes go wide and rush back to the toilet, facing away from him and making a retching sound as I open my mouth, letting the water dribble out of my mouth and into the toilet.
I continue to make the most disgusting noises possible with my throat, resting a hand on the cistern.
Come on. Come on, Barbieri. Come and get me.
“Bet you’re needing a drink right about now, you little vodka-soaked degenerate?”
I don’t answer. I don’t move. Come closer.
“Or maybe it’s those little white pills I found in your purse. Yeah, I think that’s what’s got your panties in a twist. You’ve got the bends.”
I resist the impulse to fire off a witty retort or my standard Fuck You. I clamp my mouth shut.
Closer, motherfucker.
“Sal,” I say softly, looking up at him with my glassy eyes. Yeah, I can cry on demand as well.
“Cat got your tongue, Scar?” he mocks me.
“Can I please have some water?” I ask, in the most helpless voice I can muster.
I can sense his hesitation. “I’m gonna pass out. Water. Please.”
I can practically hear his face contort into a scowl. There’s already a glass sitting on the bathroom counter, which he fills with water and brings over to me. Two feet away. One. As he’s holding out the glass, I take the only window of opportunity I’ve got and pick up the heavy cistern lid, swinging it with every bit of strength in my body. It isn’t much, but it’s enough, and he’s taken completely by surprise as the porcelain smashes into his temple, sending him careening to the side, the glass of water flying through the air before smashing on the tiles between us.
I eye the length of rope in the bedroom, beyond the open bathroom door, as a devious plan begins to reveal itself in my drug-starved brain. Yes. Of course. I’ll give him a taste of his own medicine, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll give me back my medicine so I can breathe properly again.
I wonder briefly about the girl I helped, probably huddled in my apartment right now, waiting to be found. Or maybe she’s already been found. Fucked if I know.
I don’t really care, either. A good Samaritan act has turned into a fucking nightmare, and although it’s taken me this long to get my shit together and move past the detachment and shock to start fighting for myself, I’m pretty fucking pleased with my efforts to knock Sal out. A thin trail of blood leads from his temple down into his mussed-up hair, the violent reality of his wound oddly satisfying.
I drag him into his bedroom. Fucker’s heavy. I prop him up and tie his hands behind his back, securing them tightly to one of the bed posts. I collect the gun from his waistband, the car keys and phone from his pocket. I take his ridiculous driver’s cap and put it on my own head, because I’m steering this motherfucking show right now.
When I’m convinced he’s not going anywhere, I make my way downstairs to the kitchen, the gun gripped furiously tight in my sweat-slicked palm.
I’m getting myself a motherfucking drink if it’s the last thing I do, and then I’m getting the fuck out of this house.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m nursing a glass of bourbon and waiting for Sal to wake up. He’s taking his sweet time, so I eventually just tip a glass of water over his head. He comes to almost immediately, coughing and spluttering. I give him a big ol’ Fuck You grin, taking a sip of bourbon that tastes pretty goddamn satisfying right now.