Get Out If You Can

Alison | Television

I can see my mother through a glass window high up on the wall. I wouldn't have been able to look through it if I wasn't so high up.

I watch as she silently screams at no one in particular. I watch as, somewhere behind her, my dad stands, looking awkward and shooting discreet glances at the police and the manor.

I wish he hadn't come. He's the person I would call if I, for some reason, needed to fuck things up a little more.

My wrists hurt. Terribly. I can see little cuts appear on my skin, from the friction with the rope. There's nothing I can do to get down.

So I watch. Everyone's keeping a wide berth from the manor, though I can see Diego's mother being restrained by policemen. She's crying, while his father's got his phone out – probably making calls to some high authority. My mother stands somewhere behind them.

Hunter's dad's waving something like a spanner in the air – and that explains why he's surrounded by the police. His wife stands somewhere near him, wiping her eyes.

There's another person outside, someone I haven't ever seen before. From what I can see, he's raggedly clothed, heavily bearded, and is waving his arms around like a maniac. Basically, like everyone out there. And he's crying.

If I ever see Matt Hastings again, I will tell him that his father loves him.

***

I scream. I know it's not worth anything, it's just a waste of my energy — but I do it anyway. To relieve myself of — whatever. There are too many things.

I feel the ropes around my wrists tighten. I guess they want to kill me by constricting my blood flow. I'd thought, when the masked man – or was it a woman? I couldn't tell – tied my hands together and somehow hung me up on a beam, they were probably going to shoot at me from afar or something. Turns out they're just big fans of juicing people out, drop by drop.

Something hard and sharp scrapes the back of my neck. Oh, so they're slitting my throat now? Can't they just make up their mind?

The cold metal chills my neck, but it doesn't cut me. Instead, I hear the back of my dress ripping.

They're hooking me to something. I can very well resist them, but to be honest, I can no longer see the point in trying.

And then it all happens in a second and a scream. The ropes binding my wrists loosen, and I'm almost flung to the ground; the hook at the back of my dress ripping dangerously close to the neck. Almost immediately I feel myself being pulled upwards. I'm unceremoniously reminded of a fish being pulled up from the ocean – away from comfort, away from life. I close my eyes.

I feel arms grab my shoulders.

Well, here's my chance.

I whip back, like I'd seen them do in Krav Maga, and I pull my fist back, aiming a good punch. I can't see the face of whoever's handling me; they're masked. I lunge forward, my fist about to make contact with their jaw – but they're too good for me. I feel something punch my stomach, roughly landing my back on the ground. I kick my legs, and I think I do hit somewhere – and that gives me my moment. I get back up on my feet, watching my attacker on their knees on the floor.

I pull at my severed sleeves. You don't wear dress sleeves when you plan to fight. I rip them off and throw them to the floor, readying myself. I stumble a bit on my injured foot — but it doesn't get it my way anymore. I can't feel the pain.

Whoever punched me has done a good job of obscuring their identity. I can't tell if it's male or female, they're clothed fully in black, like they do in the spy movies. And their entire face is masked.