Serial Story: English Breakfast, Part 8
This story is presented weekly in draft format.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 |
English Breakfast, Part 8
Karen’s mind reached for something it couldn’t quite grasp. Dark, blurry shadows milled around, voices murmuring at the edges of her dreams, bits and pieces penetrating the fog.
Evidence...distraction...burn...kill...
It was important, but how? What? Her mind refused to cooperate, and a moan of frustration escaped her throat. The shadows stopped. Too much attention. Shhh...
More drugs?
No.
The shadows floated away, leaving her to drift.
****
When the haze finally lifted, all was quiet. Her head hurt, her mouth was dry, and she felt weak all over. Where was everyone? Lifting her head, she squinted, trying to see through the darkened window into the next room, but the overhead light in her own cell made the contrast too high.
She examined her arms and legs for any marks or cuts, expecting to find the torture her captor had promised to extract for the video. But there was no further damage that she could see, and while she wondered what had changed his mind, she was grateful.
Her hands were still shackled to the table, and she examined the clasps and chain carefully. She could pick the locks, but with what? The table was clear, and aside from her chair and one other, it was the only piece of furniture in the room. Leaning back in her chair as far as the chains would allow, she closed her eyes and tried to work up the nerve to dislocate her thumb. It was the only way, and she had to get out of here before that sadist returned to finish her off.
With one last deep breath, she opened her eyes and leaned forward, her muscles tensing just as something glinted at her from the floor under the window. Frowning, she got to her feet, leaning farther over the table to look.
A sharp metal pick of some sort lay against the wall, probably dropped when Chuck or Charles or whatever-his-name-was had collected his tools.
Happy birthday to her.
Pressing her hips into the edge of the table, she pushed, tentatively at first, and then harder as it started to inch forward. It was a heavy table, and long enough that her body acted as a fulcrum and the table started swinging to the side. Grasping the metal chains attached to the top, she pulled back to keep it straight as she walked the whole thing towards the window.
The table finally hit the wall with a thud, and she froze, her eyes glued to the darkness on the other side of the glass, straining to detect any movement at all. After what seemed like an hour, she bent down and stretched her right foot out as far as she could, trying to reach the metal pick.
She was an inch too short.
Grasping the chains where they attached to the handcuffs, she lowered herself carefully until she was hanging from them, the sharp metal bracelets cutting into the back of her wrists even as she tried to hold herself up with the chains. Reaching again, she managed to hit the pick with her toe...and knocked it farther out of reach.
Working her feet back underneath her, she stood up, breathing hard. Remembering how the table pivoted, she yanked on the chains, disregarding the pain and wet rivulets of blood running down her arms as she stepped back and swung the table away from the wall and away from the pick. Backing up, she sat down and toed off one shoe, grabbing the pick with her toes and lying as far back as she could to lift it to her numb fingers.
Her breathing came hot and heavy now as she sat up and worked the cuffs, breaking the lock on one side, and then the other. With a cry of relief, she stumbled to the door and twisted the knob, surprised but happy when it swung open without resistance.
The hallway was short and medicinal, and she immediately turned to the right and opened the door of the dark room where she’d seen the other woman before. Flipping the light switch up, she made sure it was empty and then left, forcing herself to ignore the pools of blood congealing on the floor.
There was only one other door at the end of the hall and she went for it, pressing her ear against it for a moment before pushing it open. It was an office of some sort, empty, and she frowned. This was wrong. These people weren’t careless, and they wouldn’t have left her alone, even locked up as she was. Someone had to be around - it was only a matter of time.
There was a phone on the desk and she grabbed the receiver, checking for a dial tone before punching in Patrick’s cell number.
Pleasepickup pleasepickup pleasepickup...
A metallic click from somewhere just outside sent her to the floor as Patrick’s phone sent her to voice mail.
Enjoy
this post? Support your author:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 |
English Breakfast, Part 8
Karen’s mind reached for something it couldn’t quite grasp. Dark, blurry shadows milled around, voices murmuring at the edges of her dreams, bits and pieces penetrating the fog.
Evidence...distraction...burn...kill...
It was important, but how? What? Her mind refused to cooperate, and a moan of frustration escaped her throat. The shadows stopped. Too much attention. Shhh...
More drugs?
No.
The shadows floated away, leaving her to drift.
****
When the haze finally lifted, all was quiet. Her head hurt, her mouth was dry, and she felt weak all over. Where was everyone? Lifting her head, she squinted, trying to see through the darkened window into the next room, but the overhead light in her own cell made the contrast too high.
She examined her arms and legs for any marks or cuts, expecting to find the torture her captor had promised to extract for the video. But there was no further damage that she could see, and while she wondered what had changed his mind, she was grateful.
Her hands were still shackled to the table, and she examined the clasps and chain carefully. She could pick the locks, but with what? The table was clear, and aside from her chair and one other, it was the only piece of furniture in the room. Leaning back in her chair as far as the chains would allow, she closed her eyes and tried to work up the nerve to dislocate her thumb. It was the only way, and she had to get out of here before that sadist returned to finish her off.
With one last deep breath, she opened her eyes and leaned forward, her muscles tensing just as something glinted at her from the floor under the window. Frowning, she got to her feet, leaning farther over the table to look.
A sharp metal pick of some sort lay against the wall, probably dropped when Chuck or Charles or whatever-his-name-was had collected his tools.
Happy birthday to her.
Pressing her hips into the edge of the table, she pushed, tentatively at first, and then harder as it started to inch forward. It was a heavy table, and long enough that her body acted as a fulcrum and the table started swinging to the side. Grasping the metal chains attached to the top, she pulled back to keep it straight as she walked the whole thing towards the window.
The table finally hit the wall with a thud, and she froze, her eyes glued to the darkness on the other side of the glass, straining to detect any movement at all. After what seemed like an hour, she bent down and stretched her right foot out as far as she could, trying to reach the metal pick.
She was an inch too short.
Grasping the chains where they attached to the handcuffs, she lowered herself carefully until she was hanging from them, the sharp metal bracelets cutting into the back of her wrists even as she tried to hold herself up with the chains. Reaching again, she managed to hit the pick with her toe...and knocked it farther out of reach.
Working her feet back underneath her, she stood up, breathing hard. Remembering how the table pivoted, she yanked on the chains, disregarding the pain and wet rivulets of blood running down her arms as she stepped back and swung the table away from the wall and away from the pick. Backing up, she sat down and toed off one shoe, grabbing the pick with her toes and lying as far back as she could to lift it to her numb fingers.
Her breathing came hot and heavy now as she sat up and worked the cuffs, breaking the lock on one side, and then the other. With a cry of relief, she stumbled to the door and twisted the knob, surprised but happy when it swung open without resistance.
The hallway was short and medicinal, and she immediately turned to the right and opened the door of the dark room where she’d seen the other woman before. Flipping the light switch up, she made sure it was empty and then left, forcing herself to ignore the pools of blood congealing on the floor.
There was only one other door at the end of the hall and she went for it, pressing her ear against it for a moment before pushing it open. It was an office of some sort, empty, and she frowned. This was wrong. These people weren’t careless, and they wouldn’t have left her alone, even locked up as she was. Someone had to be around - it was only a matter of time.
There was a phone on the desk and she grabbed the receiver, checking for a dial tone before punching in Patrick’s cell number.
Pleasepickup pleasepickup pleasepickup...
A metallic click from somewhere just outside sent her to the floor as Patrick’s phone sent her to voice mail.
Enjoy
this post? Support your author:
Romantic Suspense
| Erotic Romance | Contemporary Romance |
Horror | Flash Fiction | Non-Fiction
**Please
note - If this is your first time posting, your comment
will be moderated. Once you have been approved, future comments will post automatically.
No comments have been added yet.
