#fff 62: He'll kill you dead

Photo/George Simhoni via Corbis

Her breath came ragged, terror drawn in every breath. Sweat dripped salt into her eyes. She bit down against the rag he’d stuffed into her mouth; it tasted copper like blood. Her own perhaps. When she tried to move her arms, she found them bound tightly behind her, twine rubbing her wrists raw. Her feet too, were bound, and the harder she tried to free herself the more exhausted she became.

She lay on her side on a damp concrete floor. Over the sound of her panicked breath, water dripped somewhere close. She could just make out a few hulking shapes draped in dirty cloth. The air was stale, dank and earthy. When she strained to lift her head the world began to spin.

Every move felt as if she was moving underwater.  The drugs were wearing off, but not enough that she could think clearly. When something touched her hand, she shrieked and tried to scoot away.

“Be quiet! He’ll hear you.”

It came out in a whisper, but she could tell at once that the voice behind it was that of a young boy. She whimpered.

“My name is John,” he said. “I’m going to cut you loose, OK?”

She nodded wordlessly. Still, when the cold blade passed against the palm of her hand, she flinched.

He went to work, sawing each strand, careful not to slice her wrists. Soon he panted with exertion. When her hands were free, he helped her sit up and she got her first glimpse of her diminutive rescuer. He looked to be about eight with a slight build and a bowl cut. He reached over and pulled the gag from her mouth. She drew her legs up and rubbed her wrists as he tackled her feet.

“Thank you,” she croaked. Her mouth felt like cotton. “I’m Isabel.”

“Almost there,” he said.

His tongue touched his top lip in concentration. The twine fell away. She struggled to stand.

“Come on, let’s go,” he said. “We don’t have very long.”

He grabbed her hand and she followed where he led, skirting junk and sundry. Then they were standing before a dusty shelf built up against the wall that went almost floor to ceiling. John scaled the two bottom shelves and grabbed a box from the top. The wood groaned. She grimaced and stepped forward instinctively to catch him.

“There!” he said. Fear nipped at the edge of his triumph. He wiped his brow and left a brown stain that made her think of dried blood. “There’s a window there. I’ve used it before to get out when he’s sleeping.”

“Where is he now?” she whispered.

“Upstairs, passed out on the couch. He’s been down for a while; the drink does that to him. But dusk is coming. Dusk is hunting time.”

She heard the tremor in his voice and knew he was afraid of him, afraid for her. She turned from him then and made her way back to where she thought the stairs would be.

“What are you doing?!” he whispered, trailing behind.

At the foot of stairs was a box of rusty tools. She grabbed a long wrench, measuring its heft in the palm of her hand. The coolness of the old metal brought sudden clarity.

“What are you doing?!” The weapon in bruised hands. The way her shoulders squared back. He knew. “He’ll kill you, you know. He’ll kill you dead.”

“Will he now?” she replied. She stepped onto the first stair and turned back to him one last time. “Shhhh…”

This is a work of fiction. Flash Fiction Friday is a weekly writing prompt exercise led by Elisha Bartels. She posts them on Fridays to her blog and social media and writers use the trigger words to write a short piece of fiction. They post to their space and share with Elisha, tagging others in the group where possible. Feel free to join in!