Between Octobers

Waking

Waking

My eyes fly open when gravity disappears. After a moment, I find the floor again with a rattling boom.

Trace amounts of light slip through the cracks of my compartment. Long scrapes vibrate beneath my prison in uneven intervals. After a moment, the scraping repeats and stops again. Occasionally I'm dragged over some sort of stumbling block. The hard bottom of my box bulges from whatever's beneath it, digging into my side. Then, a small ascension before the plunge. Each landing thrusts my head back against the seeming rock wall of my tiny cell.

I'm at my limit, praying, struggling to control the sobs as I'm taken closer to the unknown.

When the raised end of my compartment drops, I know-one way or another-it's going to be over soon.

My mind scrambles, struggling to recall the things I know to do. I touch the blindfold, making sure it's set in the right spot and set my arms to one side, shoving my neck back into the kinked position I woke up in. The straining motion makes my head want to burst open. I ignore it, unable to afford the distraction of self-awareness. With eyes loosely closed, resting the same way I've seen corpses on TV shows, I work on tapering my labored breath to one long, slow, pull.

The stuffy air is suddenly cool. I stop breathing.

I feel a tug on my blindfold. Thankfully, my head is turned, or else my pupils would give me away. I concentrate on keeping still and pray she's satisfied.

As a gloved hand works across my throat, fingering every inch from one side to the other, I start to panic. We're dead.

A sudden peace descends, a nonsensical tranquility, that helps me understand why I need to stay calm and play dead. The way my head is set, coupled with my crooked neck and this gloved hand-there's no way she's getting a pulse.

My mind wanders after the pronoun. I know it's a she, but can't picture a face.

She picks up my hands, stretching my arms out and running one finger along my crowded wrists. The support disappears. I let my captive limbs drop like weights. A moment of absolute stillness passes before a loud clattering echoes nearby. The sudden noise makes me want to jump, but the strange sense of peace is holding, keeping me calm enough to think through the terror, and I don't react.

The pain in my head screams. I wonder if she can see my temples throbbing.

Something crawls along my skin around the raised sleeve of my sweatshirt. It's icy and hard-an unforgiving edge that blindly drags along my arm, digging into my flesh. I can't tell if it's cutting. Tremors inside me try to resurface as the cold edge stabs into my shoulder. The instinct to fight isn't so difficult to ignore. But it takes everything I have not to clench my jaw or bite my lip.

I think of my birthday, when I fell asleep. Lily's hand on my shoulder, shaking me from a dreamless slumber.

This is just another test, like dropping my hands and the crashing sound. If I move, we really are dead.

The pointed pressure spearing me withdraws. A pause, then a sudden, deep lunge. The acute stabbing rips through my thin veil. My covered eyes fly open. The stinging pierces my deltoid, pressing and grinding down into the tissue. I feel it touch the cartilage before the pressure withdraws.

I need to scream but hold it, thinking clinically over the possible extent of the injury, calling to mind charts of the rotator cuff and tendons at the joint. My mind's in a flurry, but my body remains oddly limp, while I choke on my howls.

The merciless tool reappears, this time on my thigh, inching up and over my hip, scraping along the mountain that holds my son. The cold metal turns in a circle, tracing the circumference of my belly while I wrangle with what to do.

React? Fight? Ignore? Pretend? What? I'm going to lose it!

There are nightly stories on the news, faces on flyers. Missing people, young and old, who disappear without a trace. Will my face be just another picture on a poster at the supermarket? People will shake their heads and think, 'what a shame,' as they carry their groceries to the car.

Righteous anger charges me. Protecting him is all there is. If there's any pressure at all-

Before I finish the thought, the light is gone in a thunk. My trunk is shut.

I send a million thanks to heaven as stale air wafts, shoving away the panic. My shoulder's screaming, but Baby's fine. I listen to the muffled sounds of feet shuffling away.

An overwhelming urgency rises within me. This is my chance. I can't move my throbbing shoulder, but have little choice. I stifle the cry and work around it. Biting my lip and twisting my upper body, trying to create the space to move my knees and hopefully free my captive feet.

Open it Lord, please, open it, please, please, open it.

My prayers are answered when I realize there was no click. I distinctly remember hearing the rattle of what I assumed was a lock before the trunk opened, but now there's only the retreat of footsteps, followed by the crinkle of the tarp as I maneuver. With surprising dexterity, I make the half turn in a matter of seconds. Both knees hurt when they break free from the wedged position, which in turn, frees my tangled legs. I suddenly feel the sneakers on my stinging feet as blood rushes back into them. Glorious pins and needles.

This is going to work. This has to work.

I'm face down, giant belly set between my knees. I lift my torso, raising and curving my spine to press my back to the top of my box. To my utter amazement-since I'm convinced I am somehow wrong, in too much of a panic to really hear anything beyond the constant throbbing in my skull-the lid lifts.

Not far off is a sickening sound of scraping metal. I recognize the thin, hollow clanging of a shovel being thrust through compact dirt and rock. I know the sound too well to be mistaken.

I arc my back . . . just a little more. My coffer opens minutely. I have to angle my head around my swelling shoulder to see. At the small, open line of my trap, only a few feet away, I make out what looks like the base of a grouping of trees or shrubs. They're brown and green. Crickets chirp. No other sounds of life, no cars, or even the presence of lights anywhere. There's nothing to indicate how far the makeshift grave is, though I can guess the general direction. Other than the steady clamor, there's no sign of my captor.

The fixed noise stops, abruptly cutting off with a clang. Footsteps start. I sink slowly down, creeping in measured amounts towards the bottom of my hole. I can't move. If I turn over, the tarp will rattle and it will be over.

I shut my eyes and pray, thinking of my family. And Evan. Every moment we spent together is fresh in my mind.