MEN KILL

Chapter 3

  Emily pressed her back against the cold, damp wall listening for Rosaline's soft taps. They had no way of communicating, the wall was too thick to hear each other talk. The deafening silence left ringing in her ears, only broken by a faint knocking— a pretend conversation. Rosaline's knocks turned to taps then stopped altogether. They had been avoiding sleep for hours. Without a sound to focus on, Emily began to falter.

She tried to keep her eyes open, fighting the heavy pull of exhaustion. Her mind wandered back to her apartment, the large windows with glowing sunlight streaming in, warming her skin. The memory was a fleeting comfort. She basked in the imaginary morning light and felt a phantom warm rush over her but reality crept back in. Through the haze in her eyes, she could see twilight seeping through the window. She had tried to break it earlier. It was reinforced, ready to laugh at her pathetic attempts to shatter it.

The bed creaked as she slid onto it and pressed her cheek against the glass but there was nothing to behold. It was just a vast expanse of forest and grass— an isolating emptiness. At least she was in here. The room seemed to bring a feeling of security, even if it wasn't true.

A sharp pressure in her bladder jolted her fully awake. Panic rose as she realized there wasn't a bathroom in the room. Neither one of the men had thought to put even a bucket in there. Hurriedly, she tried the doorknob—it was locked.

"Hello? Please, I need to go to the bathroom!" Emily's voice trembled, her heart pounding. "Hello? Someone?" She slid down to the bottom of the door and looked down the hall.

The house was shrouded in darkness, the living room a shadowy void. Something stirred in the gloom- a figure shuffled towards her. Her heart raced as she recognized Andy. She jumped to her feet and backed away. He opened the door, eyes glazed, hair wild, clearly half-asleep.

"That door," he grumbled, pointing down the hallway.

Emily ducked under his arm, every muscle tense. Andy followed with lethargic clumsy steps, wearing a pair of plaid pajamas and the same dirty shirt from yesterday.

She pushed open the bathroom door. "Go. Don't lock the door." Andy slumped against the doorframe, eyes shutting even before the door clicked closed.

The room was a long rectangle with a tub and toilet at the end and a counter on the right with a single sink. It had a huge mirror that took up the whole wall right behind it. The beginning of the room was carpeted, transitioning to tile near the tub. A thin window at the far end provided a sliver of light. Emily glanced into the mirror and saw a stranger staring back. Her makeup had been smeared down under her eyes and there was a necklace of bruises hanging around her neck. That familiar heart-shaped face was pale and held distant eyes she didn't recognize. She had more bruising up her arm.

Unable to look at her reflection any longer, Emily sat on the toilet, her eyes locked on the door. She finished quickly, washed her face and hands, and dried them on a towel. As she turned, a thought struck her—this was an opportunity.

Emily suddenly looked up again, her head filling with thoughts about the current opportunity. She needed to search the room for something. A weapon. Knowing Andy was just outside the door, she quickly opened the drawers one by one before digging through the cabinets. There was nothing. She'd shut one and move to the next—finding nothing. Then she found a pile of unopened toothbrushes and feminine hygiene products. Her stomach turned to lead. They had planned on the girls staying for a while. That wouldn't happen.

She continued and switched to the other side of the room when something caught her eye. A flathead screwdriver was at the end of the room sitting on the window's busted sill. One of the men had probably sat it down and forgot it was there. She grabbed it, cramming it in her jeans just as the door swung open. Andy, still groggy, waved her out.