Midnight Lily

"There, there," he said. "I don't mind that you're damaged. I like it, Lily. I like it a lot." He leaned in and kissed me, probing my lips with his tongue. He tasted of cigarettes and stale breath. I felt bile rise in my throat.

I turned my head, forcing the word, "No," out as harshly as I could, but it came out more a whisper than a yell. Anger flashed in his expression, and he raised his hand to slap me. I braced for it, but suddenly, a door closed somewhere else in the house and he looked over his shoulder.

"I'll be back," he said, standing quickly and exiting the room. I tried to yell, but my voice didn't seem to be working. And what if the noise hadn't been my grandmother? What if it was just a car door slamming or something? Was she even here? Would yelling make him return? I needed to get free. I pulled at the restraints, but the knots were tight. He'd left some give in them, but not much. I needed a tool . . . something . . . I looked around wildly. There was nothing on the bedside table except a lamp, nothing I could reach. I felt tears burning at the backs of my eyes. Oh God, oh no. Taking a shuddery breath, I lay still. My eyes suddenly popped open. The arrowhead. It was in the pocket of my shirt. Please, please don't let it have fallen out. With some effort, I brought myself up to a sitting position, the world dimming with my exertions. I breathed deeply, some clarity returning. Okay, okay.

Bending my wrist until it felt like it might snap and stretching my hand, I grasped on to the edge of the small pocket. I let out a whoosh of air and strained some more, sweat breaking out on my forehead at the exertion and the pain of my bent hand. When my fingers brushed the edge of the arrowhead, a surge of hope exploded inside me, and I pushed myself up farther . . . farther, my index finger and my thumb grasping the paper-thin edge in a pincher grasp. It was still there; it was still there. I took a moment to try to relax, my heart rate slowing slightly and my trembling decreasing. I moved my hand slowly upward, the barest edge of the arrowhead gripped in my two shaking fingers. When I brought it completely out of my pocket, I turned my hand slowly and let it fall into my palm, clenching it tightly and letting out a harsh breath of victory. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of my face. I thought I could hear footsteps upstairs, the clang of something metal against metal. Getting a good hold on the arrowhead, I held it in a tight grasp, turning my hand toward the rope on the frame so I could begin sawing at it. The arrowhead looked so delicate, as if the slightest pressure might break it, but it didn't break. It began sawing through the fiber of the rope and I almost started crying with relief. Now I just needed time. I upped my efforts, sawing at the rope with speedy strokes.

After five minutes or so, my wrist broke free, to the sound of the tiniest of dings as the arrowhead hit the metal of the bedpost. I sagged back against it, tears running down my face and sweat making my clothes stick to my body. I fought to stay alert. I was so woozy, so woozy.