I gotta pull it together. I gotta focus. I’m not a terrified kid anymore. I’m the new and improved Flora, who has training and experience and knows better than this.
The windows. It comes to me as I stand, shoulders slumped, forehead resting against the stairwell door. In my room there had been two blacked-out windows. Break them, and I can get a hand out. Call for help. Isn’t that what the girl in Cleveland did, got part of the front door open and yelled until a neighbor came?
Okay, windows it is. I leave the locked fire door, force myself to walk away from it, past Stacey’s unconscious form, and back into the room I loathe. I snap on the bare bulb, then close my eyes until they adjust.
All my blundering around, roaming from room to room, opening some doors, pounding on others, surely must be broadcasting my newfound freedom upstairs. I don’t know if this is a good idea. At any time, maybe the stairwell door will open. And this time, some hulking beast with a gun, a knife, a Taser will come rushing through, and I’ll find myself locked up all over again. Someone must still be in the house, right? Someone in charge of the care and feeding of the inmates?
Except maybe that’s the point. The person in charge of care and feeding went out for supplies. Hence, no one has been home to respond to all the racket coming from upstairs. Meaning any moment now, said person will return. Walk into his evil lair, catch the first unexpected noise from above, and . . .
I guess I’ll find out.
I open my eyes slowly, still struggling with bright light. Remembering what Stacey had said about the sedative-laced mattress, I cross to its mangled form, grab one corner, and gingerly drag it out into the hall. I’m tired and overwhelmed, but this is no time to sleep. I gotta keep sharp.
I have to get both of us out of here.
In the hallway, Stacey’s fallen form is illuminated by the slash of light from my room. Her side is puffy and red. Her abdomen appears more swollen. She needs medical attention. She needs me to get help.
Deep breath. Back to the room, which under the harsh glare of the bare bulb looks tired and dingy. The black paint covering the walls and ceiling might be new, but that’s about it. And now, more alert, I can catch the faint odor of must and mildew. The house is old. Maybe even abandoned. Makes sense. You can hardly hold prisoners in a bustling neighborhood surrounded by white picket fences and soccer moms. A derelict building, however, in a not-so-great area of town where the residents are already trained not to report any screams . . .
I trace my fingers around the windows, feeling the plasticky nature of the paint. Thicker than regular paint. More like a spray coating. It reminds me of something, but I can’t think of what. I can dent it with my fingernail, so it’s not a hard shell. More like rubbery. Breakable, I think, with enough force.
Resources. I have the plastic bucket, the wire coil from the mattress. In the end, however, I decide I am my own best tool. My elbow, to be more precise. Driven in a backward strike, the hard point of an elbow can be a very efficient weapon.
I should cover my elbow with something, to protect it from the breaking glass. I’m still dressed in the ragged remains of a silk negligee, the torn hem and thin straps offering little cover. I could take Stacey’s shirt, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s too morbid, like stealing from the dead.
I return to the hall and the shredded mattress. Holding my breath, I reach down with both hands, grab an edge of the worn cover, and tear off the piece of flapping material. Not a huge piece and nearly threadbare, but the best I can do.
Back to the window. I stick the scrap of fabric in the middle of the lower windowpane. Then, I twist around, and moving quickly, before the fabric falls to the floor, I hammer my elbow back.
Pain. Instant and sharp. I suck in a breath, will myself not to scream as the pain ricochets down my arm, turns my hand momentarily numb. I bounce on my feet, bob my head, flex my fingers, and the moment passes. I can breathe again. Better yet, I can turn and inspect the window, which I would swear, beneath the Teflon coating of paint, has started to crack.
It takes me three tries, three little dances of pain, and then I hear it. Sharp, definitive. The glass gives way. My elbow has won.
The paint proves the tougher opponent, resiliently holding the fractured window together. I use my fingers to pick at it, dislodging the first small piece, then, in rapid succession, several larger shards of glass to make a hole.
I’m so excited by this success, I don’t notice the obvious. The lack of fresh air. Or sounds from the outside. Or any hint of daylight, streetlights, something.
It’s not until I bend down and attempt to peer out my escape hatch that I realize the error in my ways.
I’ve broken out the glass . . .
Only to discover the window has been boarded up from the outside. Three elbow strikes later, I have exchanged a glass barrier for a piece of plywood.
I am as trapped now as I was before.
*
AM I HUNGRY? Yes. Am I tired? Very much. Am I thirsty, scared, cold, hot? Sure. I am everything. I am nothing. I’m a stupid girl who once lived in a coffin-size box and now is trapped in a boarded-up house.
I’m a daughter, I’m a sister, who destroyed her family once before, and now is ruining their sanity all over again.
I am a survivor who has yet to figure out how to live.
I’m an overwhelmed person who wants to sink to the floor and feel sorry for herself.
So I do. I let myself sit in front of the boarded-up window, surrounded by shards of glass. I wrap my hands around my knees. I study the scars on my wrists.
And I think of Jacob.
It’s crazy. He snatched me, drunk and stupid, off a beach. He stuck me in a box. He drove me all over the South. He raped me, he starved me, he beat me. He took me out dancing. He introduced me to his daughter. He gave me clothes, and on occasion, he called me pretty.
I hate him. I miss him. He is, and always will be, the most influential person in my life. Other people have first loves, dysfunctional families. I have Jacob. No matter where I go, what I do, I carry him with me. His voice in my head. His smell on my skin. His brains and blood in my hair. He told me it would be like that, and in his own crazy way, Jacob never lied. Even at the bitter end, he warned me I’d never be free of him.
He advised me to kill myself instead.
Now, I picture Jacob and I know he’s laughing at me, lips pulled back from his nicotine-stained teeth, hand rubbing his swollen belly. Stupid, stupid girl, he’s laughing. Gloating. He always told me I’d be nothing without him. The world is too big, too harsh, for a silly little thing like me. Stupid is as stupid does and stupid is me.
Thinking I would actually be the one to find poor lost Stacey Summers. Thinking I could actually be the hero this time around instead of the victim.
I pick up a shard of glass from the floor beside me. I finger it absently, studying the way the light reflects off the razor-sharp edge.
It’s not that I haven’t tried, I tell myself. When I first came home, I swore the air smelled sweeter, the sound of my mother’s laughter was brighter, my brother’s quick grin the warmest sight I’d ever seen. All those days of captivity. All those nights of horror. And now this. I’d survived. I’d done it. Jacob was dead, I was alive, and I’d never go back again. I’d forget everything. Even that last day. I’d forget it all, the things I’d said, the things I’d done, the promises I’d made.
People told me I was brave and strong and amazing.
Samuel told me I was resilient and to never doubt what I had done. Survivors survive. I am a survivor.