Page 55 of Fall
19
Natalia
My heart is racing, and my body wouldn't stop shaking.
Why is it so cold? It should be September still, with leaves falling, not actual ice on the ground. I wish I knew where these men took me.
Running nonstop for what feels like hours, and barefoot,only makes the panic churning in my stomach worse. I've been gone for a while. They're sure to realize that I've escaped by now. I need to put more distance between me and them.
I look back across the farmer's field, squinting through the bitingly cold darkness. I capture one more parting glance at the distant flickering outdoor lights of the rundown farmhouse that's been my prison forover a month, by my estimation. I can only guess that it's been a month. Which is why this wintery weather continues to confuse me. Sure, with so much time locked in a damp, windowless room, no natural light, it's expected to have a sense of some lost time, but winter? There are only a couple of rational explanations for this weather. First, it's possible that the men who took me flew me to a locationwhere the seasons change earlier. Or maybe I lost a block of time? The red, crusty pockmarks in the crook of my elbows would support this theory. Possibly I was drugged for some of the time. All I had were the meals that helped me keep track of the passing days and nights.
If I could call them meals.
Smelly scraps of food in dirty, crudely made metal dishes not even fit for servingyour least favorite pet. Those were all I got. And after three days of turning the food away, the starvation hit me hard. Blinding stomach pain, unbearable weakness, and the shakes. In the end, it was the little voice in the back of my head that made me take the first bite.
Chew.
Swallow.
Eat.
Live another day.
Survive.
Be strong enough to run if theyever get careless.
I took another bite. And the next. And with every unpalatable meal shoved through the partially open door of my prison, I'd make a tiny scratch on the ground with the edge of the empty metal plate.
There are now twenty-seven scratches on the floor on this night. When taking account for the three missed meals, it added up to thirty days on the night they finallygot careless. Correction. He got careless. One of my five captors. The one whose large meaty hand had a Latin cross tattooed onto the flesh between his thumb and index finger. I had a name for each of them.
This one was Overgrown Catholic.
I gave the others names to suit their size, disposition, or the distinguishing features on their hands or forearms. That was all they allowedme to see.
But I swear on my life, it'll be enough when the time comes, and the tables turn.
Gruff Goldie was the loud, rude bastard with a solid gold Rolex wristwatch.
Wiley Rose had a rose tattoo on the inside of his wrist, which was narrow and veiny, like he either grew up malnourished or spent his entire paycheck tweaking the hard drugs.
The back of Human Ashtray'sentire right hand was peppered with cigarette burns. If he weren't party to my being held against my will, I might feel sorry for him.
And then there was the Inked Ringleader. I only saw the sleeve of ink on his forearm twice. First, when his hand clasped over my mouth with a chloroform handkerchief on the night that I was taken. And last night, when the door opened a crack wider. I felteyes on me, then his deep, threatening voice spat out the words, "Lucky whore's still breathing," before he slid my meal into my cell, letting the metal scratch the floor on its way to me.
But it's Overgrown Catholic whose screw-up led to my current state of freedom.
Thank fuck for him.
Tonight he brought me the meal and shoved the door shut, but forgot to turn the key inthe lock. I gave it fifteen minutes, eyeing the door intensely as I wolfed down my food.
And when nobody came back, I took my shot. I lifted my weight onto my shaky legs, snuck out the door to a snow-dusted, hay-filled hallway that could only be somewhere in a barn, and crouched down low all the way to the open wooden double sliding barn doors. Not a soul was around, so I found my strength,prayed my weak body could defend against the cold, and I ran.
That was a while ago.
Now, my feet are bare and bloody, and threatening to turn blue or black from frostbite. My torso and limbs are struggling and failing miserably at maintaining enough body heat to survive for much longer before it shuts down. My clothes are filthy and tattered. And all I can hear are occasional echoesof their distant voices, approaching faster than I can carry myself away. The threat of being caught again has me in a panic. I can almost sense them, their menacing, faceless frames closing in on me from every direction.
I run until my legs can't carry me, then I crawl. At one point, I lose my balance at the edge of a moderate yet icy slope, and slide down about thirty feet, only stoppingwhen my back crashes into the base of what feels like a frozen shrub.
