Page 31 of Mason

Emily

Hard rain pings off the bathroom’s window.

I’m freezing, and all I’ve had for warmth since being abandoned in this hellhole is the stupid coat the stranger left me. I can’t even wear it properly because of these dumbass handcuffs, so I have to alternate between literally freezing my ass off or turning my front into a sheet of ice.

I wish he’d left some blankets along with the stash of water and food, the hodgepodge mix of nuts and chips obviously grabbed during a gas station run. Or, I don’t know, maybe a fucking space heater. If I didn’t need it to wipe my ass, I would’ve attempted a toilet paper quilt by now.

I haven’t seen either captor in days. I don’t know how many, given the circumstances, but judging by the sunsets, I think today’s Saturday, which means I last saw one of them on Tuesday, when the annoying asshole sat in here and verbally poked at me for a few hours like a circus animal.

I tried to wash up in the tub earlier, which went as horribly as expected since the water isn’t heated and smells like tree bark. But I needed to get some grime off before I went insane. I could literally smell myself, and I suddenly felt a hell of a lot worse for anyone who’s ever been on Survivor.

My strapless bra and thong are drying on the edge of the tub after being rinsed, leaving me shivering in my dress under the coat. I wanted to wash the dress too, but one, it’s too fucking cold, and two, I can’t get it off unless I rip the straps.

So basically I’m damp, dirty, and desperate.

The storm outside has steadily picked up as the day’s gone on, and I’m terrified about what it means for me going forward. Every part of me aches from the cold. If the temperature dips any further in here, I’m not sure that I’ll live through this. The coat only offers so much warmth.

I check my bra’s dryness for the hundredth time, desperate for the extra layer. My nipples scratch against my dress, the peaks permanently set to hard now that my bathroom jail cell has turned into a meat locker. Gripping the underwire portion between my fingers, I groan at the dampness. I never thought my life would get to a point that not wearing a bra would suck.

As I finger the satiny fabric, the underwire beneath rolls between my fingertips.

I need metal.

Underwires are metal.

Holy shit.

I tear into the luxury lingerie like an animal, sinking my teeth in to fish the wire out. It’s a struggle, but I emerge victorious with the metal half circle, and happy tears threaten my eyes.

I have a fucking chance.

I bite off the plastic tip meant to save flesh and break into full-blown sobs as the beautiful metal end looks back at me.

I feel like a moron for not thinking of this sooner, but shove the negative thoughts aside to get to work, maneuvering the piece the best I can with my hands bound to first try to pick the keyhole. Now isn’t the time to dwell on mistakes. I need to make up for lost time.

I promptly figure out that idea is dead on arrival because of the metal’s width and move to mess with the teeth of the cuff on my right hand. I force the underwire over them, hoping the mechanism will slide backward, but it moves forward instead, pinching my wrist and making the cuff tighter. I yelp as the shackle bites into my flesh, but the pain vanishes when the cuff slides back and loosens, allowing me to slip my hand free.

Bruises mar where the shackles rested, and I have to stare at my bare wrist for a moment to take in that I freed myself. I really did it.

I repeat the step with my other hand and stand on shaky legs once I’m free.

Completely free. No cuffs. No shackles. Nothing.

Nothing’s stopping me.

I reach for my thong, slipping on the damp panties under my dress before pulling on the coat the stranger left and buttoning up. I can go braless into the wet cold, but I won’t go commando. Not with the wind I hear howling out there.

Knowing damn well that my captors could be on their way, I rush to the bathroom door, relieved to find it unlocked. It spills into a square room with a fireplace I could’ve fucking used all week while I flirted with hypothermia. An old cot sits in one corner and a cabinet in another, neither of which hints that anyone’s been by recently.

After a quick search of the bare bones quarters, my heels are nowhere to be found and there’s nothing I can fashion into footwear, either.

Just fucking peachy.

I’m barefoot in a rain storm.

But I have no other option.

I unlock the flimsy lock that leads to freedom, only to stop dead in my tracks as soon as I open it. There’s nothing but forest beyond the building’s rundown porch. Thick, middle-of-nowhere forest. The kind you see on a brochure to a campground with trees, trees, and more trees.

---