When All is Lost

Chapter 3

That didn't just happen.

I stood in my doorway with my mouth agape.

Did he really just close the door on me?

I felt a wave of anger flood over every single one of my rational thoughts. There was no way I could let Ian ignore me. He hadn't been back in days. He had to know something. Before I could even fully process my own actions, I was pounding on Ian's door.

My fist hit the wood so hard that I could feel the vibrations all the way up my arm, but I kept knocking. When my fist started to hurt, I switched to open palms, slapping both of my hands on the hard wood.

A door opened at the end of the hall, making me pause. I could see part of a woman's face peek out at me, but once she saw that I'd noticed her, she slammed her door shut. The silence reverberated in the hallway as I rested my hands on Ian's door. My anger drained as I realized what I'd done.

I'd left the apartment.

First time in fifty-seven days.

I could feel the color drain from my face. Taking a step back from Ian's door, I looked around the dimly lit hallway, but no one else had dared to stick their heads out. With all the noise I'd made, it was only a matter of time before a building guard showed up.

Giving Ian's door one last hard kick, I dashed back into my apartment and locked the door. I couldn't believe what I had just done. I had just risked everything by stepping outside.

And it felt good.

All it took was that tiny taste of the outside world and being back in my apartment felt suffocating. With everything that had happened in such a short amount of time, I felt overwhelmed. It was a kind of sensory overload after so much rigorous monotony.

I needed to do something.

Focusing on the simmering undercurrent of anger that still pulsed through me, I stormed over to the kitchenette and yanked open the designated "special" drawer. The space held the only spare items we had of value: a miniature screwdriver that was only three inches long, a flashlight that didn't have any batteries, a stub of a pencil, and a small pad of paper with a dancing fish pattern. All had been left behind by the previous owners.

I snatched up the pencil and pad of paper and slapped them down on the kitchen table. I was going to make a plan if it was the last thing I did. I sat for a moment, taking a few calming breaths, and then scribbled down my ideas.

1. Catch Ian – Find out what he knows! 

2. Start saving up on food. – And stuff? 

3. Plot escape. 

4. Find Chris. 

5. Go east.

My hand stopped moving as I stared down at my handiwork.

Well, that's pathetic.

My list turned out to be more like goals than actual plans, but it was a start. What surprised me was number three.

Plot escape.

It was dangerous to think, let alone write down. Yet, as I looked at my own writing, the more I realized that that was the only logical next step for me. No one was coming to tell me about Chris which would mean that I wouldn't be able to find him without taking some big risks.

There might still be some hope with Ian – especially because there was no way he was going to get off so easily – but it wasn't enough. The reality was that without Chris, staying would be unbearable.