Mr. Nobody(98)

The sound of something small and light hitting the flooring beneath me. I look down between my legs. A Day-Glo pink plastic lighter. The lighter I borrowed from the security guard yesterday to light my cigarette, I’d forgotten all about it. I remember now slipping it into the small inside pocket of my jacket, out of sight and, until now, out of mind. My struggling freeing it from its little hiding place.

If I can just reach it. But it sits right beneath me. I ease myself, gently, down onto my knees and lower my shattered hand toward it, scrambling blindly, unable to see exactly what I’m doing. It must be here somewhere, I saw it. Unless it was a mirage. Wishful thinking gone mad. And with that thought the edge of my baby finger taps straight onto its cheap plastic.

Yes.

I try to grab it with my broken fingers but I can’t control the movements. I pull away quickly and shift my weight onto my other knee, dropping my good hand behind me. I stretch as far as I can, I push farther back against the chair. A finger brushes its smooth side. I snatch at it greedily and roll it up into my palm. Yes. I angle the lighter back toward my wrist quickly, and roll the flint with my thumb so that it sparks to life. I let the flame burn straight up at the flesh of my wrist and the ties that bind me.

    Its heat is not unpleasant at first, until the fabric of my sleeve singes and bursts into flames. White-hot pain tears through me, searing my flesh. I press my lips together to keep from crying out. I feel the plastic of the zip tie softening and melting onto my burning skin until I fear I’m going to scream in pain. The smell of burning fabric and human tissue. I desperately fight the urge to pull away, I stay as still and quiet as possible. And after an eternity, in which I’m certain I can’t take it for an instant longer, the melted plastic finally gives. I whip my burning arm straight between my thighs, staunching the flames, the fabric of my trousers sticking to my melted flesh. I can’t look at it, the smell is enough. Dizziness overwhelms me. I pray he can’t smell it farther into the house. I need to break the second tie before it’s too late. I hold the lighter in my burnt hand and set to work on the other tie. The gurgle of running water comes from the kitchen as I work in silence. The second tie begins to melt and I pull the hot jammy plastic until it tugs apart.

I bend instantly and pull at the leg ties. I can’t slide the plastic ties off the end of the metal chair legs, as they connect. Shit. I quickly hoist my trouser hem up and steady the first ankle tie. I strike the lighter, the hot flint burning into my thumb as I depress the fluid button down. The edges of the flame lick at my ankles but these leg ties are thicker, the plastic won’t give as easily. I hold the flame on longer, too long—my flesh screams. I bite back a howl of pain so violent I taste blood; the agony is unbearable. And suddenly the leg tie breaks.

I move to the final tie.

The tap in the kitchen has cut out. I wasn’t paying attention. The sound of movement in the kitchen. I try to focus, holding my trembling thumb on the lighter fuel button as the plastic slowly softens in the flame. The sound of footsteps coming this way but the plastic won’t give. I’m not going to make it. I need to move. I leap to my feet as I see him turning in to the hallway just as he looks up and sees me.

    His eyes widen and I bolt, grabbing the folding chair that’s still attached to one ankle, and careen wildly toward the shotgun with every last shred of strength I have. I drop the chair at the last second and with free hands grab the barrel of the gun, fumble it up, and level it straight at him.

He skids to a halt. We both stand stock-still, breathing in time. I cannot believe that worked. I slide my shaking fingers into the trigger guard and try to catch my breath, shallow and high, as I keep the gun leveled at his chest.

“Back up,” I order him, my voice croaky. I’m hardly a force to be reckoned with, a barely conscious burnt woman with a chair attached to her leg. But then, I have a loaded double-barreled shotgun, so it doesn’t really matter what’s attached to my leg, does it?

He backs up.

I shuffle painfully, out of the study and away from him, tugging the metal chair behind me. I keep the gun trained squarely on his torso, the biggest target area, as I go. I edge back along the wall of the hallway toward the front door slowly, my eyes locked with his. His expression is unreadable, just like it was in that hospital corridor yesterday. He takes me in like a house cat watching a robin. Then his gaze flutters, he breaks the look, his eyes flicking down, at something right behind me.

It’s a trick, I know it. He’s trying to distract me. I’m not falling for that.

I feel it too late, the step down behind me, the little lip down onto the terra-cotta tiles of the entranceway. I forgot.

I lose my balance just long enough for him to rush me.

He hurtles forward but the distance is far enough that I dodge out of his path just at the last moment, breaking my fall on the banister of the staircase. He wrenches the gun free from my hands easily as he passes, but as I lose my footing he catches the edge of my metal chair, tripping and crashing into the front door, his injured shoulder pounding into it hard.

    I grab my metal chair and lurch desperately up the staircase, taking two steps at a time. My joints scream at the effort as I reach the landing and slip quickly into the first available doorway, my breath coming in short snatches.

It’s my old bedroom. I push my back to the wall and try to catch my breath as I listen. The house beneath me is silent. What is he doing?