Courage and determination. Not so long ago, she assured herself these were her special skills. Use them, dammit. Don’t give up. Never admit defeat.
She looks down at her right wrist and wonders how she can possibly get free. Her hand faces up, and the back of the leather restraint is attached to a short metal chain, which is screwed to the table and probably bolted on the other side for all she knows.
The good news is she would not need a key to undo the restraint, which is buckled like a belt. The bad news is she can’t do it without a free hand, or at least a way of rubbing her wrist against something. There isn’t enough chain to allow her to turn her hand and move it against the table or even against her own body.
Without being able to reach over with her other hand, or swivel her wrist to press against the table, there appears to be no way to get the cuff off. Still, without expecting anything, she strains to pull her hand up. If the chain isn’t securely attached, maybe she can break loose.
But it is secure, and pulling on it only makes her arm ache. Then she tries her left side, and both of her legs. She’s not sure, but she thinks the left wrist might be slightly looser than the right. Turning her head sideways, she’s able to glimpse the chain that’s attached to the table. It looks old, even a bit rusty. This prompts a shudder at the thought of how many times it might’ve been used over a period of many years.
She yanks at the left chain again. Definitely looser than the other side. She thinks she sees a slight gap in one of the links. Maybe if she pulls hard enough, she can open it sufficiently to break the connection. One more time, and now she uses all the force of her left arm to resist the chain. Her muscles are screaming, and the edge of the cuff is digging into her flesh, but she won’t let herself stop. C’mon. C’mon. She twists her body away to apply more force.
The link snaps free and a feeling of elation fills her. But it’s short-lived; there’s still much to be done. Flannery could return any second and he has the gun.
It’s awkward and way too slow undoing her right hand, but she manages it. Sitting up to release her ankles, a wave of dizziness hits her. The drug is starting to do its damage. Her throat feels dry, but she can’t let herself think about it. She frees her ankles before sliding off the table, nearly falling in the process. Her balance is off.
She’s going to need a weapon, and there are plenty of them, though she recoils from the thought of stabbing anyone with a knife. Nevertheless, she’s like Goldilocks, picking out the one that fits her hand the best. The one that has the right weight and size for her to use comfortably. She tiptoes to the door, trying to be as silent as possible, since she has no idea how close he might be.
The door is locked, of course. He would not be foolish enough to leave it unlocked, even with her restrained on the table. Her gaze sweeps the room, wondering if there might be a key in here. She seriously doubts it, though, and it might rob her off whatever wakefulness she has remaining if she were to search for it.
She’ll have to wait for his return. She positions herself behind the door because there’s no other hiding place. But while she crouches there, her symptoms grow worse. She feels nauseous and her head is starting to throb. It’s a struggle to keep her eyes open.
She thinks she might’ve dozed off by the time she hears the key in the lock. Her eyelids refuse to raise more than halfway. She jabs her fingernails hard into her palms to keep herself awake a little longer.
The door comes open. She can’t wait to see if he’s holding the gun or not, she has to act. Driven by a rush of adrenaline, she whirls around the door and meets his shocked expression with a thrust of the knife into his side. He cries out and sprawls to the floor, blood gushing out.
It isn’t in her to plunge the knife in again and again, as she probably should do to save herself. She draws it out and flings it across the room so she’ll have her hands free, to somehow get around him and through the door. Her only thought now is to flee.
But just as she thinks she’s gotten past him, he grabs her ankle, catching her in mid-stride. She crashes hard onto her knees. Turning back, she sees his hand reaching into his pocket where the gun must be. With her free leg, she kicks his wound with every bit of strength she has remaining. He screams, releasing her, and she scrabbles across the floor to the stairs on the other side, too dizzy to stand up.
Using the banister, she drags herself up each step. When she’s almost to the top, a shot rings out. She feels nothing and hopes that means he missed her. Sheer terror gives her the jolt she needs to conquer the last onslaught of stairs, and stumble toward the table in the kitchen, away from the doorway.
There are noises behind her. A banging against the stairs. He’s not dead, he’s forcing himself up them. Probably pulling himself just as she did. Determined to kill her. Determined not to let her leave this house alive.
She’s fading fast. Any second now, she’ll be passed out and helpless. Grabbing the leg of the kitchen table, she struggles to pull herself up. But the table wobbles and a heavy crystal ashtray falls from it, landing on the other side. She falls back down and reverts to crawling. Halfway into the hall, her body collapses. This is it, she can’t get up, can’t move a single muscle any longer. She looks back to see him reaching the landing, blood smeared all over him. He raises himself to his knees to take aim at her. He’s going to kill her.
But his hand trembles, his body sways. He’s trying to steady himself before taking his shot. In the second this gives her, one final surge of energy allows her to lunge for the ashtray. In the same movement, she rolls up and hurls the heavy object at Flannery.
It hits his forehead. He staggers and falls backward down the steps.
She drops to the floor again, unable to keep her eyes open a second longer. As she lies there, strange visions flash inside her head. Her body shakes uncontrollably. She’s not sure how much time has passed when she feels the touch of a hand on her back.