My Funny Valyntine: Book One - The Pull

Chapter Seven - Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

i.

Valyntine stares at the door, chest heaving. Mrs. Jones, and those comprising the 'us' and 'we' she referred to, want to see what the Pull entails, want to see what it does to her.

She pleads for the Pull to hold off but knows it will take her. Whoever is responsible, they have come too close to success to give up now. Tunisia's sacrifice saved her life, but it will not protect her from the invisible rope. Valyntine flashes back to that day in August, trapped in the elevator.

She has no idea how long she's been in this room. There isn't a clock she can... wait! Valyntine feels the front pocket of her jeans. For a frantic second, she worries Mrs. Jones, or someone who works for her, removed it after she first arrived. No! There it is!

Sliding the timepiece out of her pocket, she pushes in the small button at the top. The little door opens to reveal a clock face: eleven fifty-five. Her shaking fingers close and she places the watch back in her pocket. Noon is approaching. Her breathing is erratic. The deadbolt slamming into place may as well have been the lid closing on her coffin.

Unable to stand, Valyntine crawls to the door, pulling and turning the handle in vain. She lifts her hands to pound and bang and scream, then stops. No amount of noise or pleading will make the slightest difference. She had doubts about Mrs. Jones but didn't think her cruel. If the old bitch knew, had any idea what the Pull does, she would not have locked her in here. Would she?

Beyond the windowless walls of the room, somewhere in the expanse of Porter City, Valyntine hears the distant rumble of thunder. Clenching and unclenching her hands, spreading out her fingers and contracting them, over and over, she repeats the motion until her knuckles crack and whiten. Taking in a deep breath, she tries to calm her insides, to prepare.

Turning away from the door, Valyntine looks over the room, examining her environment. Since arriving, she has not paid attention to anything other than the couch she slept on, the chair she sat in, and the green ceiling with gold leaf around the border.

Two chairs stand against the back wall, bringing the total to four, with a second sofa against the adjacent wall. Small end tables sit next to every piece of furniture.

The walls, adorned with large oil paintings in ornate frames, look sturdy and thick. Valyntine hasn't given them any real notice until now. She counts six – two of them depict different cityscapes, two show scenes of people lifting their glasses in merriment, and two portraits. The occupants of the portraits – a man in one and a woman in the other – are dressed in clothes of an unfamiliar style. One wall contains no artwork. Instead, two large bookshelves extend on either side of a mirror in a dark, golden frame. Valyntine notices her reflection for the first time in a long while.

The word 'tired' does not do the person looking back at her justice. The girl in the mirror appears too thin and sickly to be anything as glamorous as 'tired.' Tears brim in the black-ringed, shallow eyes of the gaunt thing staring back at her. An angry, red rash streaks over the left side of her face, the result of bricks exploding under the Traveler's near misses.

Her hair is matted, her shirt and pants stained with filth, dried scrapple, and the deep crimson of both hers and Tunisia's blood.

Her jacket and boots had been removed but nothing else. She needs those two items; they are the closest things she had to armor. Another roll of thunder, closer now, brings forth more memories from her time trapped in the lift, memories of her insides threatening to rupture, her skin trying to turn itself inside out. She has no idea how long she spent in that lift before being freed and allowed to follow the Pull. She wouldn't be so lucky this-