Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
No.
They were flooded.
Flooded.
With unshed tears.
For me.
For what she knew was about to happen.
For what had happened to her.
I swallowed back the lump in my throat, making sure Claw-face was not looking directly at me, then shot her a small, mischievous smile, trying to let her know that if my time was up, that I would do exactly as I said I would; I would go down swinging; I would inflict some pain; I would make them see that they weren't the only ones with power.
My feet sounded annoyingly weak in comparison to his on the steps, as I pretended to pull away, to put up a fuss.
If he was used to me pulling away, he wouldn't think twice about it when I finally did make a move, get in position for it.
I could catch him off-guard
I waited for us to get upstairs, to move through the door, watching as his hands slid the locks closed, seeming to remember at the last possible second to pocket the key he had used to unshackle me.
His pocket.
No matter what I did to him, I had to get that key. Any ideas at all about escape were useless if I didn't get a key.
My heartbeat - hummingbird's frantic wings just moments before - slowed. My mind that had been racing with fear and uncertainty, cleared, focused.
Everything was about that key. About getting him distracted enough that he didn't notice I was taking it, that he would likely just assume that he had dropped it.
"Should shove you up against the wall right now, and make you pay for what you did to my face."
"What's the matter? Didn't want your hideous insides to show on the outside?" I asked, tone venomous as he yanked me to the end of the hall.
The end of the hall where I knew from counting the steps that we would be turning off if we were going to the garage.
My eyes sought the hallway in question, figuring maybe that would be the best avenue for escape, the door least likely to be guarded. And, maybe if I was really lucky, the garage would be full of blunt instruments, things we could use to defend ourselves if I couldn't get my hands on something better.
Better.
Like a gun.
Like the ones my father sold.
Like the ones I had been using for target practice with Uncle Repo since I was twelve, taking me out of town to the woods, trekking through all sorts of weather to get to the place where he had targets set up at varying distances, holes poked through them many times over from him practicing himself, or with Aunt Maze.
He'd pull the backpack straps off, zipping it open slowly, like he was building anticipation. And, well, he was.
Because I was twelve.
I was twelve, and I was learning how to shoot a gun.
Most kids I knew hadn't ever even seen one, let alone been allowed to hold one.
And there I was, about to illegally - because I knew it was illegal - shoot one in the woods.
I had felt older, wiser, more worldly.
I mean, I didn't get bragging rights. I knew I wasn't allowed to ever speak about this to friends, to kids at school. This was top-secret stuff which only really made it more exciting as Uncle Repo brought out four different guns, telling me to pick them each up, decide which one felt better in my hand.
We didn't do it often, practice, but a few times a year, every year.
I was good too.
Not great.
Not like Uncle Repo.
But good.
Better than my mom, which rubbed her the wrong way anytime Repo bragged about it.
There was also some kind of story about the wall of the compound and my mom and a gun that was some kind of inside joke that, no matter how many times I asked to know, no one would tell me.
So if I could - by some miracle - get a gun, I would be able to use it.
Well, I knew how to use it.
Whether or not I would be able to take one, point it, cock it, pull the trigger, and bore a hole - possibly a fatal hole - into a human being... yeah, that was still to be seen.
It occurred to me, yes, even as I was being dragged down another hallway by a man who wanted to hurt me in terrible ways, that my life was so incredibly different than anyone else my age.
I guess I had spent so much time railing against some of the oppressions that came with being born to my parents that I didn't see the freedoms.
In my position, no one else my age would be able to say that they had the skills to handle it - even if they didn't have the history of utilizing it in this kind of real-life scenario.