Page 104 of Of Oaths and Secrets

“Where am I? Who are you?” I demand, my voice trembling with forced bravado as he dumps a bag on the bed. He doesn’tanswer, his face blank as he turns to leave. “I’m talking to you!” I shout, my tone sharper, masking the fear bubbling beneath my surface.

He pauses, turning his head slightly, and mutters something in what I assume is Russian. The tone of his voice is biting and dismissive.

“I’m pregnant,” I plead, my desperation breaking through. “Please let me out.”

He glances over his shoulder, his expression unchanging, then mutters another phrase before stepping out. The sound of the lock sliding into place sends a shiver down my spine.

I sag onto the bed, staring at the bag. My stomach grumbles, the hollow ache impossible to ignore. I tear it open and find a bottle of water and a gas station sandwich—cheese, sealed in plastic, far from ideal for a pregnant woman. But I know I have no choice. Starving myself isn’t an option.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I unwrap the sandwich and force myself to take a bite. The bread is stale, the cheese rubbery, but my body demands sustenance. I chew robotically, my thoughts spinning like a whirlwind.

The man comes at intervals now, his visits as mechanical as the meals he provides. Each time, he tosses the bag into the room without stepping inside. My pleas for answers, for mercy, fall on deaf ears. He doesn’t even meet my eyes anymore.

How long have I been here? Hours? Days? My sense of time is completely warped under this artificial light, with no windows to guide me.

By the third visit, panic takes a firmer hold. My pleas are more frantic, but I might as well be talking to the walls. Pain begins to creep through my body—sharp, biting, and familiar. A flare-up, the stress unleashing it in full force. Worse still, the baby’s movements are slowing, and I feel the fever creeping in,not knowing if it’s simply my lupus flaring or something far more concerning.

“Please,” I whisper hoarsely during his latest visit, clutching my belly as tears streak my face. “Something’s wrong. Please help me.”

He throws the bag at me without a word and leaves, the lock clicking shut behind him.

When I drag myself to the corner toilet, I see it: blood. Not a lot, but enough to send terror coursing through me. A fresh wave of fear and fury bursts in my chest, creating something primal.

I sit on the floor, the ache in my body almost unbearable. "You’re not giving up, baby girl," I whisper fiercely, pressing a hand to my stomach. "We’re getting out of here."

As my eyes scan the dim room, I spot it—a rusty nail protruding from the bed frame. Hope glimmers faintly in the darkness.

I crawl toward it, my fingers trembling as I reach out. It’s wedged tightly, and the effort makes my already tender fingers bleed, but I grit my teeth and keep going. Pain is no stranger to me; it doesn’t faze me anymore. Finally, the nail comes loose.

With the jagged nail in hand, I work to unscrew the other bolts holding the bed frame together. It takes time, blood dripping from my fingers as I work, but eventually, I manage to pry a piece of sharp, pointy metal free.

I hold the jagged shard in my hand, my breath coming in shallow pants. This isn’t just survival—it’s war.

Leaving drops of blood trailing across the floor, I move back to the mattress. I lie down on my side, turning my back to the door, gripping the shard tightly beneath me. My body trembles with exhaustion, but I force myself to stay still.

The faint sound of footsteps echoes down the hall. My heart pounds as I close my eyes, feigning unconsciousness. The lock clicks, and the door creaks open.

His steps grow louder as he approaches, his voice muttering something under his breath. I don’t move, not even when he nudges me with his foot.

I hear him shift closer and feel the oppressive heat of his body and the sickening scent of his cologne. My grip tightens on the shard as his hand brushes against my arm.

This is it.

With every ounce of strength left in me, I twist and strike upward, driving the shard into his throat.

A wet, gurgling sound fills the air as his blood spills, hot and sticky, over my hands. His eyes widen in shock as he stumbles backward, clutching his neck.

I scramble away, watching as he collapses, his body twitching on the floor. My breath comes in ragged gasps, and my hands tremble as I clutch the bloodied piece of metal.

I’m alive. Baby girl is still with me.

But this isn’t over yet.

I drag myself up, adrenaline numbing the pain in my limbs. My fingers fumble with the key ring on his belt, slick with blood, until I finally manage to it free.

I glance at the lifeless body, the pool of blood spreading beneath him, and my chest tightens. My instincts scream to keep moving, but a glint catches my eye—a phone sticking out of his pocket.

Hope surges through me. Crawling back to him, I force my trembling hands to reach into his pocket. I swipe at the screen, and to my disbelief, it’s unlocked. My fingers shake as I scroll through the options and hit the dial pad.

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