The Fall of V (The Henchmen MC 13)

My wrists throbbed as my plan went through, legs splintering, dropping to the ground, the seat following, nothing to stop my wrists, then shoulders from slamming into the wall mercilessly.

"Ow," I hissed, taking a deep breath, trying to think through it. And, because my mom wasn't around to hear it, and because, well, the situation warranted it, I added, "Fuck."

Taking slow, deep breaths, I listened for running footsteps, tried to prepare myself for another possible fight.

But none came.

Not quite willing to believe my luck - since I knew the sound should have alerted someone - but also not the type to squander the chance, I forced my brain to think past the pain, to ignore the feeling of the ties slicing into my wrists as I pulled from the wall, and tried to throw my arms outward, loosen the rungs from the top where they were still stubbornly connected.

I could feel the skin of my left wrist breaking open, hot, searing, the trickle of my blood as it escaped my body.

Fighting someone else was easy.

Fighting your own animalistic self-preservation was harder as I hesitated at another pull, knowing it would only drive the ties in deeper.

Steeling my stomach - and my will which desperately needed it - I threw everything I had into one last attempt, feeling my heart surge upward as the rungs cracked and detached, the rest of the chair clattering to the hard floor.

Leaving me with two jagged, pointy pieces of wood attached to the undersides of my arms.

Like weapons.

Like I was sure I had seen in a movie once, some kind of girl vampire hunter with them attached to her wrists to jab into vampire hearts, turning them to dust.

An odd, almost hysterical chuckle bubbled up and trickled out at that thought, the long days, and the fights and the pain and the adrenaline clearly starting to get to me, screw with my mind.

But I couldn't let it.

I had to harden up, like Uncle Pagan demanded relentlessly, always being one of my harshest coaches, refusing to give me a second even to catch my breath or process my pain, instead insisting I learn to enjoy it, fuel myself with it.

Harden up, he would command, swatting me on the side of the head hard enough to make my other ear slam into my shoulder with the force. Yeah, you're pissed. Good. Use it. Come at me with it.

And I would.

Fiercely.

With every bit of tiredness and frustration I would feel at the moment.

I needed to find that strength again, to use all these experiences to drive me forward, to allow me to battle it out again. And again. And again if it was needed.

As if responding to the request for motivation, visions careened across my mind.

Chris with her hollow eyes.

Mary retching for hours.

Mary begging to be assaulted just to get a break from the detoxing.

Chris being thrown down on the floor like trash, bruises around her wrists and throat, blood in her mouth, eyes, demanding I find an escape, so I didn't have to be fully conscious of the awful things happening to my body when it was my turn.

The gnawing, unstoppable hunger.

The eyes of men who saw us as objects instead of people.

Yeah, that would do it.

Within minutes, I had to remind myself to breathe through the seething anger, the blind hatred that was making its way through my entire system, compressing my ribcage with its ferocity.

But no one came.

And, for the first time, I knew for how long.

This room had a clock.

Just a simple, ugly black rimmed one with bold black numbers and flimsy plastic hands hanging awkwardly on an otherwise empty wall.

Actually, this was another mostly-empty room with boarded windows, white-faded-to-yellow walls, wooden floors in desperate need of wax, or even simply a broom and mop, and one lone captain's chair in a hideous salmon color butted into a corner.

That was it.

Almost as if this place was temporary.

Temporary, but Chris had been here months.

If they were just squatting, surely someone would have seen and reported them by now.

Unless we were in the middle of nowhere.

That thought made me feel anxious and comforted in equal turns.

Anxious because if we were in a populated area, when we escaped, we could find a house and ring the bell, find a road and flag down a car, find a restaurant and beg for protection while we wait for the cops.

It would be the easier solution.

But comforted because if we were in the middle of nowhere, there would likely be woods to disappear into. And while I wasn't exactly the survivalist like Uncle Duke, I certainly knew a lot about the woods from time spent with Uncle Wolf and Malc in them.

I could guide us through them.

If they were too thick, I could ensure we survived in them for a few days before we could find some help.