Intoned Resonance

3.

He wrapped his arms around me like I was a sack of potatoes and lifted me as though I weighed nothing. Then he kicked the door open and tossed me into the snow, where I landed flat on my face and stomach. I was more relieved to recognize the trees of my own woods than to focus on the pain—I wasn't far from home.

Then that silent lunatic grabbed both my arms, twisted them behind my back, and tied my wrists with some foreign rope. Grabbing the back of my coat, he carried me to the nearest tree and left me lying against it.

He knelt in front of my boots, grabbing both ankles with one hand despite my resistance, and tied them quickly with a thin, red rope. His grip was so firm it hurt, and he moved too fast for me to stop him.

Once he finished, he stood up, his muscles relaxing as he moved around the car, disappearing to the other side. I caught a glimpse of his black shoes beneath the car as he walked around to the front passenger door, then they were gone.

I tried bending my knees, and it worked, but I hesitated to stand. I didn't want to fall flat on my face and waste a chance to escape.

Only one thing was left in my mind, and it felt horribly wrong.

He reappeared in front of the car, and the sound of the door closing echoed a second later. He was holding an object that faintly glistened, though I couldn't make it out. When he looked in my direction, his eyes widened, and he rushed toward me in silent panic. When he reached me, he dropped to his knees, gripping my lower jaw with one hand and pulling up my upper lip with the other, prying my mouth open.

He pressed his thumb against my tongue and thrust his index finger to the back of my throat, triggering my gag reflex. I retched, but nothing came up. He had provoked the reflex to stop me from biting my tongue.

"Are you insane?" he whispered, shaking his hand to rid it of my saliva. In response, I spat blood onto his neat black shirt. He stared at the slowly sliding droplets in silence, disgust twisting his expression.

He then pointed a gloved finger at my nose, dangerously close. "Do that again, and I'll knock you down."

I stared silently at him, then opened my mouth wide. At first, he looked concerned, but confusion soon made him back away slightly. I began to make strange noises and shallow gasps until he realized I was choking.

It took a lot of effort to keep the act up, but he believed it.

He tried to reach for my face again, but I threw my head back, falling onto my side beside the tree, refusing to let him touch me. Strangely, he didn't press again.

I wheezed, my eyes tearing up, and my nose began to run. Finally, he frantically undid the ropes, his movements rushed as he freed me. But instead of seizing the opportunity, I wrapped my hands around my neck and kicked the air, exaggerating my distress.

I heard a small thud as the object he was holding fell into the snow beside my head. He didn't notice it when he moved to my right side, away from it. I reached out as if clutching for dear life and grabbed the cold metal.

My fingers felt a rounded bulge, and I pressed it. A sharp pain shot between my middle and index fingers, and I couldn't be happier. It was a pocket knife, and it had nearly cut my hand.

As he leaned down, his hands ready to check my throat, I bent my left knee to myself and aimed my boot at his chest. His face shifted from a frown to a blank expression as he caught my ankle just in time, holding me at a safe distance, the length of my entire leg.

Then I pointed the knife, its blade barely longer than my finger, to my throat—right where he'd palpated earlier. His eyes flicked to the knife, and his grip on my ankle loosened, but not entirely.