Trapped

Tick tock tick tock

Tick, Tock. Tick, Tock.

Every sound, every feeling drawled out like the beginning scenes of a cliché movie. The light too bright, piercing, tracking dust motes dancing through the air. The room tipped and spun as the eyes of the woman on the floor dragged open. Silver sparkles streaked across her vision. There was pain and fog, that was all. Eyes snapped shut in protection. The metronome of the clock continued. A minute or an hour may have passed before she tried again.

Carefully an eyelid slid open, revealing a deep amber color. She scanned the room slowly. It was quiet, but for the clock. Chafed fingers explored her face and scalp, wincing at what she found.

“Why was there blood?” she wondered. A grunt caught deep in her ribs as she cautiously pushed herself to sit.

The room whirled momentarily. So did her memory.

She was trekking down a sunny street, the town still new to her. She loved the quiet, homey feel of small towns. Moving here made her feel safe, so her guard was down when blinding pain exploded through her head. A second explosion as knees drove hard into the pavement. Blackness consumed all.

“Someone hit me.” A realization like cold water. Her mind scavenged for why’s but pulled blank tiles. She had always assumed amnesia was a product of creative license. The truth was unsettling.

Adrenaline thumped her heart like thunder against straining ears. Her brain teetered between fight and flight. Eyes darted, cataloging and sorting. Wherever this was, it wasn’t a hospital.

The room was confining and unadorned. The only touch of decor was an old-fashioned clock hanging on the wall below sterile-colored pot lights. A washer and dryer stood guard, inches from her feet. There were no windows, only a door, firmly shut. She could just see the outline of the bolt through the crack. Trapped, like a rat in a cage.

The starkness of the surroundings told her it must have been a planned attack. Pure animal instinct pushed thoughts aside. It was time for defense, not deliberating. With little noise and even less hope, she scoured the room. There was no weapon to be found. She stifled a panic that bubbled to the surface and burned her throat. Hope lay in postponing the inevitable, in praying that someone other than her attacker would come.

Muscles taut, the desperate woman wedged herself, carefully, behind the washing machine. She steadied ragged breath, inhaling bravery into one painful push. An irritating squeal pierced the air as the washer slid towards the door. Again, she heaved, panicked that at any moment someone would come rushing to the door. Again, and the barricade jolted into place. Her feet skidded against the cheap vinyl flooring. She crouched, back pressing to the wall, desperately listening to catch any sounds.

She didn’t hear the footsteps coming. The only warning was the lock disengaging. Her stomach plummeted, and the bile rushed upwards. Dumb fear told her to recoil into the wall, but a sudden flash of instinct launched her forward into the washer. The oaken door hit the appliance with a bang and a grunt from beyond.

“Open the damn door,” grated a man’s voice.

The voice was familiar. A name swam up from the depths and clenched onto her heart. Dean. Could he have found her?

Months ago, she had fled her old town, running from eyes filled with anger and hatred that she couldn’t appease. Dean hadn’t been the man she thought he was. He would have caged her. He refused to understand. Memories, still elusive, formed and slipped away as she reached for them. She recalled eyes full of hatred, but there were other images on the periphery too. Dean smiling and cupping her chin. Whispered kisses and melding fingertips. Giggles from his two children, just five and seven, sweet and accepting. She would do anything for those cherubic faces. They were angels.

The door struck the barricade, pushing her and the washer back an inch.

“Dean.” Half animal cry, half plea.

Work-stained hands reached through the doorway, followed by an oily work boot. The washer grated across the floor with a loud squeal, knocking her to her knees. Scrambling to keep a barrier between them, she panted, “Dean, please stop… Please.” A convulsion wracked her body. She tasted hot bile.

The man was dark of hair and had the ashen skin of one that drinks too much and sleeps too little. Smile lines escaping from the corners of his eyes told a tale of past happiness, but his red-rimmed eyes denied all joy. He didn’t move towards her. He watched her scornfully from just inside the doorway. Silent sobs and unbridled anger battled within him, sending spasms through every muscle.

“How could you?” He wailed.

It was the sound of an animal with its leg in a trap. Anger wrapped in pain, pain wrapped in disbelief. Memory flooded back to the woman. The sound of children's voices. Carefully she raised just her eyes, seeking to meet his, judging his intent.

The sound of children’s laughter peeled through her head like a thousand church bells. Urgency and fear writhed like snakes under her skin. He mustn’t cage her. She must continue the work of God.

“Have you called the police?” Her voice was calm, at odds with her disheveled appearance and skipping heart.

The children raced and danced in her mind. Small blue eyes peeked up at her and nestled to her breast. She wasn’t their mother. She was better than that because it was her choice to be there. They were perfect, almost. She could already see the edges of spoil that time always carried. If only someone had loved her enough.

Her own biological son would never feel that pain. Gone now, 2 years. SIDS, they called it, but it had been so simple. No one even questioned it. So tiny, smaller than the large pillow in his crib. She was his savior, his hero from the sinister intentions of a merciless future.

Dean’s kids were bigger, but she had steeled herself for the ultimate act of love. Paraquat Dichloride, a common pesticide. Sharp odors of vomit and feces. She wiped sweaty brows, murmuring that all would be well soon. I love you. At last tranquility and celestial stillness. This was God’s work. Two more clean souls, untarnished, escaping because of her bravery.

He took a deliberate step towards her. “No, I won’t do that. I can’t believe I didn’t see it right away.” His breath struggled for a moment before he continued.

“I won’t do it. Sure, you may go to jail, but for how long? You don’t deserve that, you don’t deserve life. You took mine away months ago, you took my babies. For both of us, it ends today.”

The light caught a glint in his left hand, sleek dark metal with a voice of its own. A gun, the ultimate savior. Relief flooded every inch of her being. Not jail, finally someone who loved her enough to return the devotion.