If he was here, if he truly stood in this room ready to hurt her, she didn’t want to hear him coming. It would be better that way.
The ringing in her ears had lessened, and she forced herself to ignore the pounding of her heart at her damaged ear; she forced herself to listen to the room around her.
Would she hear him breathing?
“If you’re going to hurt me, get it over with, you sick shit!” she shouted. Only it wasn’t a shout—her throat had gone so dry, her voice came out high and cracked.
A sound came.
Had that been there earlier?
A steady plop, plop, plop every second or so.
Where, though?
She had walked around the room when she first woke. She’d checked every wall. She was barefoot—if there was a leak, standing water somewhere, she would have found it, right?
Her throat ached at the thought of water.
You might be hearing water because you’re so thirsty, dear. The mind is funny like that. I think if he wanted you to have water, he would have given you water.
Emory closed her eyes and tried to listen harder. She knew it was silly; she couldn’t see anyway, but somehow closing her eyes helped. Sounds became a little louder, a little clearer.
Plop . . . plop . . . plop.
She tilted her head, positioning her good ear, turning slightly with each drip until it was at its loudest. When the sound began to fade again, she stopped and turned slowly back.
It came from her left.
Emory slid off the gurney and stood on the icy concrete. Goose bumps ran over her skin, and she wrapped her left arm around herself in an attempt to warm up. Her right hand tugged at the gurney.
Don’t forget the rats, dear. Those little guys are probably scurrying around you right now. They probably found the water a long time ago; now they want a little dinner to wash down with it, a little chunk of girl-meat. If I were a rat, I’d probably set up base right next to the water. I’d protect that water too; I’d protect it with my life.
Emory took a step forward, followed by another, the gurney dragging behind her.
She didn’t want to abandon the wall. The wall brought her comfort, like a big safety blanket, but she left anyway. She left the wall behind her and took another step, a little step, more of a shuffle. Without knowing what was in front of her, she couldn’t permit herself any more than that.
Can you imagine if he scattered broken glass? Or rusty nails? What about a hole in the floor? If you fell and broke your leg you’d be in all kinds of trouble—much worse than your current predicament, that’s for sure. By the way, not to be a pest, but I feel this is worth mentioning. Have you figured out who turned off the music yet? Because if he’s nearby, then fetching a drink shouldn’t be your number one priority right now.
“If he plans to hurt me, he’ll hurt me,” Emory shot back. “I’m not going to sit around and wait for him to make a move.”
She shuffled forward, her toes growing numb with each step.
Was the concrete getting colder?
“He’s not going to let me die, not until he’s done with me. He kept the girls in the news alive at least a week before he killed them. I’ve only been down here a day at the most. He still needs me.”
I suppose there’s something to that, but there are so many things he could do to you, so many unpleasant things, things that wouldn’t kill you. He already took your ear. You know your eyes are next. Would that be so bad, though? I mean, you can’t see now, right? Honestly, I would be more worried about losing my tongue. You can always fumble around in the dark, but to lose the ability to speak? Oh my, that would be rough. You’ve always been such a talker.
Emory listened. She was close now, only a few more feet at best.
A rat scurried over her toes, and she let out a shriek, nearly falling back over the gurney.
She forced herself to take a deep breath. She had to stay calm. Again a pair of little feet ran over her toes. This time when she screamed, her voice was loud; dry throat or not, she didn’t hold back. Her throat felt as if she had vomited glass, and she wanted to stop but the scream kept coming anyway—the scream to end all screams. It wasn’t about the rat anymore or being kidnapped and trapped in this place, it was about her father and the people around her, it was the frustration of homeschooling and the limited number of friends in her life. The pain at her ear, the numbness in her feet, and the vulnerability of being naked in a strange place all came to a head. It was about the unknown eyes on her. It was about the man who took her—a man who could be miles away or inches from her, lost in the dark. It was about her mother dying and leaving her to suffer all of this alone.
When she finally stopped, her throat burned as if she had swallowed hot lead and scraped the residue away with a rusty blade, but she didn’t care. The scream cleared her head. She needed clarity.
She needed to think.
The ringing in her ears was gone.
Emory forced her good ear to listen, past the rushing blood pumping through her other one.
Plop.
At her left came a soft scratching. Nails against concrete. Tiny nails. Digging.
Ignore them, she told herself.
Just ignore them.
She forced herself forward, inching along, first one step, then another. Then an—
Her toe jabbed into something. The surface seemed colder than the concrete. Cold and damp. She kneeled down awkwardly to touch it, her right arm trailing up behind her. She tugged at the gurney, pulling it closer, giving her a little more slack.
A metal plate? That was it, a rather large metal plate. She traced the edge and estimated the plate to be about three feet wide. About every four inches or so, threaded bolts poked through it, securing it to the concrete.
Emory slipped her hand over the surface—damp for sure.
Plop.
This time the drop hit so close that droplets sprayed up at her, sprinkling a fine mist against her skin. She ran her finger over the metal plate and brought it to her lips. Even before she tasted it, she smelled the metal—rust or some kind of residue. She tasted anyway, her brain telling her if she didn’t get water soon, nothing else would matter.
It was awful, but it was wet and she wanted more.
Emory lowered her head toward the metal plate, pulling at the gurney to get a little more slack. When there was no more, she stretched her neck and stuck out her tongue. She might not be able to see, but water was right there, inches away. She sensed it—the tip of her tongue reaching, groping the air, stretching.
She heard the scratching again. Tiny little claws digging at—
I’d put that tongue back in your head, if I were you. Water or not, it seems like a delectable little treat for a big hungry rat, don’t you think? At the very least, you’re making things easy for your host to cut the little bugger right out of your mouth.
Emory pulled back. With her damaged ear, she couldn’t pinpoint the source of the scratching. One moment it sounded like it was right next to her. Then, if she tilted her head, the sound seemed as if it originated across the room.
Plop.