Page 138

Which is good and bad.

Good means he can unlock the door for me – since he locked my ass in here to begin with – and bad because I’ll have to incapacitate him for some small amount of time to make a break for it.

While being sweaty sucks, it works heavily in my favor.

The stickiness of the tape is continuously becoming less sticky given the changing range of motion my wrists are experiencing and if I can just get to the sharp edge or corner of something, I can tear through it, granting me function of my hands again.

It takes a couple glances around the large room that’s mainly filled with useless products for this situation – toilet paper, tissues, paper towels, tampons, ect – before I hone in on a nearby shelf edge that just may do the trick.

Using the wall that I’m propped against to wiggle myself up to my feet is a bit harder than it was in the vehicle when I just needed to sit up.

This takes flexibility I lack.

Why?

Because I’m not a fucking yoga instructor!

My first failed attempt gets a heavy breath.

The next one?

Something slightly louder.

The third?

Full fledge scream that has me grateful this tape absorbs the sound.

If I can’t even get onto my feet, how the fuck do I expect to get out of this room?

Post another exasperated breath, I channel my inner teacher’s voice.

Turn off the critic and turn on the cheerleader, something I rarely do for myself.

I slowly maneuver my feet in search of leverage and pause rather than quit when hit with frustration until I gain true momentum.

The instant I’m successfully standing and sturdy, I dart over to the piece of furniture I spotted, spin around, and begin frantically sawing where my hands are bound against the sharp metal. Occasionally missing a stroke is expected; however, the pokes that deeply pierce my flesh are not.

I just hope that’s more sweat and not blood I’m feeling trickle down to the ground.

My eventual appendage freedom leads to me removing the tape from my mouth, forcing me to swallow the scream of agony ripping it off conjures.

Never.

I am never getting a lip wax after this shit.

Glancing down at the once bound area reveals more blood than I like leaving me no choice but to temporarily veer off the original course to handle this instead.

There’s no escaping if I suffer so much blood loss that I can’t even walk let alone run.

Paper towels becoming makeshift bandages is the easy, logical choice – they’re more absorbent that the tissue – but electrical tape – that I find hiding on the top shelf between a box of pads and coffee pods – are neither of those things.

The damn shit isn’t the right kind of sticky!

Not to mention even less so because of the same sweat that supported me in severing my previous bonds.

As quickly as I can, I wrap up the cuts on my wrist and prepare to return to my previous plan of action for an escape.

Unfortunately for me, that gets interrupted too.