Mrs Evans hasn’t come back. I’ve heard her moving around the house, but she hasn’t checked on me once. My head is killing me and I’m so hungry I feel as if I may pass out. I tried knocking on the door and calling for her, but she told me to shut up unless I wanted another blow to the head.
Mrs Evans scares me.
The only light to my day is watching the two little boys opposite as they play in the garden. Often, they look up at my window and I wonder what they can see. They are so young, though. Would they understand if I tried to signal them? I doubt it.
Their mother occasionally steps outside, either to collect the washing, or do a spot of gardening. Would she help? Again, I’m not so sure, but maybe I should try at least.
I hear the front door bang shut and then silence. Mrs Evans has gone out. Maybe this is my chance.
Quickly, I head to the window and peer through the cracks in the shutters. Only the smallest boy sits there playing with his ball, and I wonder if I dare raise the alarm. This may be my only chance, but then again, what if I wait until Mrs Evans comes back and surprise her? I could deal her a blow to the head and make my escape. My heart sinks as I look around and see there’s nothing here that’s capable of doing any damage. Then again, that doesn’t surprise me. It may be a bedroom, but it was always intended as a prison, after all.
Thinking about my father in a strange hospital, in danger of losing his life, makes up my mind for me. I’ll do anything and everything I can to escape and raise the alarm.
Without stopping to think, I grab a t-shirt from the drawer and hold it firmly in my grasp.
Heading over to the window, I take a deep breath and do something they warned me not to; I open it as far as it will go and wave my t-shirt out of the window, hoping the little boy will look up and think it strange enough to report to his mother.
Frantically I wave the t-shirt, but he doesn’t look up. I dare not call out in case Mrs Evans hears me. She may be around here somewhere, and I don’t want to alert her to my call for help.
Despite my efforts, the little boy just carries on looking down at the ground before something distracts his attention and he looks behind him shouting, “Coming.”
I could almost weep with frustration as he heads inside and leaves me alone and afraid—again.
Suddenly, I hear the door slam and I almost drop my t-shirt as I hear footsteps pounding on the stairs. Quickly, I drag in the t-shirt and stuff it in the drawer, slamming it shut as the door opens and Mrs Evans stands there, her eyes blazing.
She doesn’t even speak, just crosses the distance between us and before I can even react, slaps me hard across the face and then I feel the cold hard steel of her gun pressing against my temple as she hisses, “I’ve had it with this place. It’s time to move this on.”
The terror grips me hard as she hisses, “Come with me.”
My heart beats so frantically I’m sure she can hear it as I allow her to propel me towards the door. Despite the threat, I think fast because the door is open and this could be my only chance.
If she takes me downstairs, I may be able to distract her and fight back. I must fight back because that’s my only hope.
Her voice is low and bitter as she snarls, “Don’t think about trying to escape, because if you did it will be the last thing you do.”
Her fingers grasp my neck hard as she uses her other hand to grip my arm and she pushes me towards the door. If I thought I had half a chance of escaping, I underestimated the woman holding me so tightly and before I know what is happening, she forces me into the dreaded room with the black sheet and roughly pushes me onto the bed. Once again, she slaps me hard and as I taste the copper in the blood in my mouth, she snaps the metal handcuff on one of my wrists and the other part of it to the bed post.
I start to tremble in fear as I see the madness in her eyes and she grabs another set and does the same to my only free hand.
Feeling an immense wave of fear, I open my mouth to scream in desperation, but she stuffs a rolled-up rag in it and hisses, “Try that again and I’ll cut out your tongue.”
Sobbing, I watch with despair as she fumbles in a drawer and removes a bottle and a syringe and says roughly, “Welcome to oblivion.”
The pain is sharp as I feel the needle pierce my skin and as I look at her in horror, she smiles sadistically and says in a low voice, “Trust me, it’s for the best, you really don’t want to know what happens next.”