I ran down the stairs, almost tripping on a pair of work boots at the bottom. I had to get through the kitchen and out the back door—no, I didn’t have time. I could hear the front door opening. I grabbed the handle of the pantry door and ran in, closing the door softly behind me.
I stood still, scared to move and trying to catch my breath. The door had slats in the front so I could peek out. Maybe he was just coming home because he forgot something. I waited, listening to his boots out in the kitchen. I could see his shadow moving back and forth. He was on his phone, sounded like he was ordering parts. So he was probably done working on the tractor for the night.
I crept back a couple of feet, setting my feet down gently, praying that the floorboards didn’t creak, and crouched low. I was scared to move around in case I bumped into anything. The door was letting a small bit of light in, and my eyes were adjusting. There were some cans on the shelf beside me. I grabbed one for a weapon and pulled the knife out of my pocket, my hand on the button to flip the blade.
Now I heard pans clanking, a fridge door closing, then something sizzling. The scent of meat and onions cooking filled the closet. Cupboards opening, things being moved around. Then the scrape of a chair being pulled out, sounding close, his body settling down. I realized he was sitting right in front of the closet door, could see part of his shoulder. I held my breath, terrified he’d sense my presence.
He ate for about five minutes or so, scraping his fork and knife against the plate loudly, like he was eating in a hurry, and then he got up. I could hear water running like he was rinsing his plate. He still hadn’t turned the music down, and I was surprised he didn’t mind the noise. I heard boots going upstairs, right over my head. Did I have time to escape? I tested the closet door, and realized something was in front. His chair from the table? It had gotten wedged under the door handle. I tried to push the door open but could only move it a couple of inches. I reached my hand out, tried to push the chair away, but I was at a bad angle. I needed to give it a good shove, but that would make noise and he might hear me. If he caught me in the kitchen, could I outrun him? He was tall and strong. My best bet was to wait until morning when he went to work.
The music turned off upstairs, startling me. I strained my ears but couldn’t hear anything. He was gone for a while, then I heard his footsteps coming back down and passing through the kitchen. He turned on the TV and I could smell cigarette smoke. I needed to pee desperately and couldn’t hold it any longer. I backed farther into the corner, slowly unzipped my jeans shorts, and peed on his floor, hoping it soaked into the wood and didn’t roll out. It was hot in the closet, sweat dripping down my face and back, and I was thirsty as hell.
Hours later the TV was still on, but I could hear him snoring on the couch. I stayed awake in the closet, counting every moment, every beat of my heart. My legs were cramped, my back aching. I wanted to stretch but couldn’t risk making a sound. I kept thinking about the room upstairs, the smell. Was Crystal trapped in there? Was she okay? Finally I drifted off, my head pressed against my knee, but I just dozed in and out, scared to let myself fully fall asleep in case I fell over.
In the morning I heard him get up, fart, and walk to the bathroom. I heard the sound of him peeing, then the shower running. He didn’t go upstairs to get dressed. Maybe he put on the same clothes, which was disgusting, but everything about this man was revolting.
He was in the kitchen now, the scent of coffee and eggs and toast drifting into my closet. My stomach growled and I hoped he didn’t hear it.
He sat down at the table to eat his breakfast, and I said a mental prayer of gratitude when he stood up and pushed the chair back in this time. I could see him scraping something onto a plate, then he turned around and I heard him walk upstairs. I felt a jolt of shock, followed by fear. I was right. He must have Crystal locked in that room.
A few minutes later the country music started up again. He came back downstairs, sounded like he dumped the plate in the sink, and left the room. It was hard to hear again, but I thought I heard his truck start up. I waited about another ten minutes, then pushed open the door slowly, listened. I couldn’t hear anything but the music. I crept out, looked around cautiously, then walked to the living room window, peeked around the curtain. I didn’t see his truck out front.
I ran to his bathroom, barely making it to his toilet, and wanted to cry in relief as I emptied my bladder. When I was finished, I tiptoed out, looking around in case he’d come back in, then crept up the stairs. I was at the top, walking down the hall, my pulse beating hard in my throat, my mouth dry. Almost there.
I tested the handle: locked again. I hit the door hard with the side of my fist, called out, “Crystal?”