Over the years, I’ve argued with my parents about a lot of things. When I was little, I wanted to play hockey like all my friends. My mother thought it was too dangerous. I thought my dad would back me up because he liked to watch Maple Leaf games on TV. But instead he gave me some crap that playing hockey took up too much time and would distract me from school. By then I’d already overheard my parents talking about the cost of putting a kid in hockey. They let me play soccer instead, which was much cheaper. In those early years, money was a big worry for them. In the end, I played soccer for eight years. At this moment, I wish it had been boxing or tae kwon do.
Dennis waves the knife from side to side. His knees are slightly bent. He looks ready to cut me.
I guess this is better than him pulling his gun. I figure I can try to fight, or I can make a break for it and just run for the door. My side is still throbbing from being kicked. My hands are shaking. I feel a bead of sweat drop from my temple. I’m in no shape to fight. I’m leaning heavily against the wall farthest from the exit. My backpack is on the floor maybe three metres away. Dennis is between me and the door. Rob is sitting on the arm of the couch, watching.
I notice I’m breathing faster.
Rob says, “What are you waiting for, Dennis?”
Dennis takes a step forward. I scream at the top of my lungs, hoping just to confuse him. I move to my left and the table blocks Dennis’s route toward me.
I bolt. And I trip. I fall toward Rob. We both end up on the couch — me on top of him. Now Dennis is the one screaming. I turn my head to look toward him. He’s charging at us with his knife held high. He leaps into the air and dives toward me. I close my eyes and try to roll out of the way. I fall off the couch.
Rob lets out a shriek. “You bitch! You stabbed me!”
Rob is pushing Dennis off him. His shirt is a dark mess of red and black. It looks like he’s been stabbed where his shoulder meets his chest. Dennis is standing next to him holding the knife.
“Look at what you made me do,” Dennis says to me. It looks like his face is about to explode.
I break to my right to get around the couch. I reach for my backpack. My phone has fallen to the floor too — I grab it. Dennis darts around the other side and is closer to the exit door than I am. I’m not going to make it out. Instead I head into their hallway and jump into the first room. It’s the bathroom. I try to slam the door shut, but Dennis is right there, pushing it open. I lunge with my all my body weight, ignoring the pain in my side. The door closes and I quickly turn the little knob to lock it. I feel Dennis slam his body against the door.
He yells, “Open the door, you little bitch!” My breathing is so fast now I worry I might pass out.
Rob yells for help.
It sounds like Dennis has gone to him. It feels good to have my phone in my hand again. I press a button and the screen lights up. Of course the phone doesn’t have any service and the battery is only at 5 per cent power. I remember hearing somewhere that cell phones can dial 911 whether they have service or not. I don’t know if this is true, but I’m about to find out. Please work. 9.1.1. It doesn’t even ring. Then someone comes on.
“Emergency services — Police, Fire or EMS?”
I explain that I’m trapped in a bathroom and I need the police. The call gets transferred to the police department. A new voice asks how she can help so I repeat myself. She asks me if I’m being held against my will. I say “yes.” She asks me if I know my captors. I say “no.” Then she asks me if they have broken into my home. We go back and forth like this:
Me: I’m not at home. This is probably their place.
Dispatcher: You’re in their home?
Me: Yes. It’s a long story. Please send the police. And maybe an ambulance too.
Dispatcher: Are you hurt?
Me: Well, yeah. But the ambulance is for someone else. Someone’s been stabbed.
Dispatcher: Someone’s been stabbed?
Me: Yes! Someone’s been stabbed!
Dispatcher: Who has been stabbed and by whom?
Me: One of the guys who stole my phone stabbed the other guy.
Dispatcher: You are being held against your will by captors. But you are in their apartment. And one of the captors has stabbed the other captor? Are you aware that it’s a criminal offense to prank call 911?
Me: This isn’t a prank! The guy out there is going to kill me!
Dennis is now back banging on the door and yelling for me to come out. He’s loud enough that the woman on the phone can hear.
Dispatcher: Is that them trying to get at you?
Me: Yes! Please send the police already!
Finally she asks what the address is. She seems annoyed that I don’t know the postal code. I’m surprised that I can even remember the street address.
Dennis is still banging and yelling. “Who are you talking to?!”
She asks me a bunch of questions, like my birthday and my home address. When I tell her I’m seventeen, she asks for my parents’ names and their phone number. I tell her. She asks me what I was doing here. The phone’s been beeping since I picked it up. It beeps again and goes dead. The battery’s toast. I look around to see if maybe there’s another phone. No luck. Dennis is slamming his body against the door, trying to knock it down. One of the hinges rips right out of the wall. I try to open the small window but it’s jammed shut. I look for something to smash it with. Then I hear sirens.
Please, please be coming here.