The Fall of V

by Jessica Gadziala

  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.

  I was lucky.

  Someday, I would make sure I told my parents that.

  And my aunts.

  And uncles.

  They were the sole reason I even had a chance.

  We rounded a bend that opened up into what could be called a living room, though the windows were blocked with big sheets of metal that reminded me a lot of the walls at Hailstorm.

  There was a single couch facing a stone-front fireplace. No carpets, no knick-knacks, no coffee table. Bare.

  Really, it was now or never.

  That realization should have made panic wash over me, made my heart trip and stumble forward, should have made my brain race.

  But, unfathomably, everything within me calmed, stabilized. My mind cleared. My muscles seemed to steel themselves.

  His hand loosened slightly, giving me just enough room to whip my body backward, to lose the grip fully.

  There were a few options.

  To take someone down.

  Fully.

  I needed him down.

  We needed to grapple if I was going to get that key.

  He was bigger than me, undoubtedly stronger.

  But I had knowledge and the surprise factor and his underestimation of my sex, my age, on my side.

  I slid back.

  Planted one foot.

  Lifted another.

  And swung my body around, kicking around in half a circle, the top of my foot landing perfectly as my body kept swinging around before I could plant my feet again, slow the momentum so I could face him once more.

  There was always a lag with liver shots.

  Five or ten seconds where the pain didn't register, as the liver jerked around in the stomach cavity.

  I watched with a perverse, but unmistakable, sense of glee as his face crumpled in pain, as his body went down, unable to keep strength in his legs as the pain overtook his whole body.

  No mercy, my Aunt Janie would yell at me in this situation. They damn sure wouldn't show you any.

  My body flew forward, instinct and repetitive, unending lessons taking over me, making me land on him, closed fists slamming down full force into weak spots.

  Nose.

  Eyes.

  A knee came up, ramming down. I couldn't be sure, but I would have sworn I felt a crack.

  Ribs.

  There was no time to revel in that, to feel pride.

  The key.

  I had to get the key.

  One hand slammed down into his face as my body shifted, as another landed a groin shot that allowed my hand to seek his pocket without him noticing.

  There was one small flaw in the plan, of course.

  Whereas liver shots cause enough pain to render you almost voiceless, groin shots had a tendency to make a man roar in pain.

  And roar he did.

  It was barely a few seconds before I heard boots running.

  My hand shoved down my dress, sticking the key in my bra before landing another well-timed punch as three men stormed into the room, one plowing forward, snagging me under the arms, and lifting me clear up as though I weighed no more than a dandelion seed.

  "Calm the fuck down!" he roared as my hands knew nothing but self-defense, being outnumbered, knowing my time was running out.

  I didn't say anything.

  What was there to say?

  I simply struck out again, landing a lame punch to his jaw, not even enough to make t
he boulder he called a head swing at all.

  All I managed was an even more sore hand, and to piss off a man who could break me in half using half force.

  His hand left my arm, moving forward so fast that I momentarily forgot to grab his wrist.

  But a moment was too long in this scenario.

  Because half a moment meant his giant hand was closing around my throat.

  Squeezing.

  My mind flew to Chris, to the bands of bruises around her throat. At this man's hands? While he did awful things to her? Like he was bound to do to me as well.

  Thoughts became harder as the lack of oxygen started to make my brain feel foggy, thick.

  Fight, a chorus of voices sounded in my head - every last one of my loved ones speaking through my subconscious, reminding me that so long as I had air - even just a teeny bit of it - in my lungs, I had the power to try, to fight, to do something.

  My hands moved up in between his outstretched ones, clasping together, half-turning, then driving down the underside of my forearm into his elbow, making it buckle downward, releasing my throat.

  My voice gasped in even as my body dropped, sliding under his arm, moving behind him.

  Just in time to be grabbed by the man who had carried me in that very first night, leaning down low, catching me - shoulder to belly - and hauling me up and over his shoulder.

  There was a moment of asinine, but undeniable, horror at the idea of my short skirt riding up, of the bottoms of my butt cheeks exposed by my black cheeky panties.

  It took superhuman self-control not to reach back, to try to drag down the fabric, to cover myself.

  But another side of me, maybe a prideful part, didn't want to let them know they had finally gotten to me, unnerved me.

  They would only use something like modesty as a source of humiliation for me.

  And I'd be damned if I gave them anything to use against me, anything other than what they already had on their minds.

  But wait.

  Not their.

  My head lifted up from where my chin was braced on a giant back, looking up to find the other three men had stayed behind, lifting their fallen comrade carefully, inspecting my damage.

  The choker guy seemed to feel my inspection, head swiveling in my direction.

  I don't know where it came from, what would possess me to do it.

  But I did it.

  Smiled.

  Because maybe I was losing the war, but I had won a battle, damnit. And I was going to call that a victory.

  I did what I said I would when I was brought here - an untold number of days, though it felt like weeks or months - I fought. I hurt them. I showed them that I was going to go down swinging.

  And, in turn, he looked taken aback, confused, then almost... curious.

  I wasn't sure that curious was what I wanted him to feel toward me, but it was too late for that as I was turned suddenly, the man taking me into a room.

  A room with a door.

  A room that maybe had a bed.

  Where all the awful things Chris and Mary had endured would happen to me as well.

  This was when fear finally started to swirl around my belly, making bile rise up in my throat.

  I choked it back as I suddenly felt myself falling from his shoulder, remembering at the last possible second not to grab at him for stability.

  I slammed down on unprepared heels, feeling a stabbing sensation through them and up my calves for a second before I felt a hand clamp on my shoulder, adding pressure until my body had no choice but to buckle.

  Buckle.

  Going down.

  Down to what?

  My knees?

  Because, well, after witnessing what I had been willing to do to his body, he was a freaking idiot to think he could try to force anything in my mouth without me biting the thing clear off.

  But even as the revolting, but possible, idea crossed my mind, my butt slammed down on a hard chair.

  There wasn't even enough time to register that before I felt my wrist snagged, yanked back until my shoulder screamed, then felt something, small but thick, slide around my wrist, tighten, connect me to the back of the chair.

  Zip tie.

  Even as I realized it, my other wrist got the same treatment until my back was arched painfully backward to keep the ties from clawing at the delicate skin of my wrists.

  "See if you can behave your fucking ass like that for a bit," he rumbled before moving off.

  The door slammed closed behind him.

  Closed.

  But not locked.

  Not as though that would do me any good tied to a chair.

  They knew what they were doing.

  The thought made my lip curl, hating the idea of clever bad guys, always wanted to think of them as base, thoughtless morons easily outsmarted.

  But handcuffs were hard, could have been used to break the rungs on the back of the chair, freeing me enough to get down on the ground, bring the cuffs to the front, find something to pick them with, or simply run with them still bound. They would make a good noose if I could grab someone, use it to choke them, pulling their body tight, using them as a shield.

  But zip ties wouldn't break the chair rungs.

  Maybe I could saw into them given enough time, but I didn't figure I had a whole heck of a lot of that.

  It wasn't that zip ties were unbreakable.

  I'd broken sets of them as far back as eleven years old.

  When they were bound in front of me. It was simple, really, bring your arms up, close your fists letting your fingers touch, then use every bit of momentum in your body to drive them down while pulling your arms out, swinging your elbows backward.

  They broke almost effortlessly.

  It wasn't much harder behind your back, either. You just bent forward, lifted your arms up, and rammed them downward onto your butt. Over and over.

  It took a few times, but they'd break too.

  But like this?

  Pulled to no slack, so tight that I was worried about the circulation in my hands, connecting me to a solid item?

  Yeah... I couldn't think of a way out of it.

  My legs were free, though, I reminded myself, thinking.

  I'd put dining room chairs together with Aunt Penny once, all Allen wrenches and screws and washers.

  But weak in the joints, in the legs.

  I took a deep breath, figuring it was worth a shot.

  Getting to my feet, I folded forward as far as I could but still move, making the legs stick outward. Taking a deep breath, I squat-ran backward with every bit of force the awkward position would allow, slamming back into the wall with the hopes that the legs would crack off the seat which would fall out without the support.

  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 i
nto 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.