I’ve made a promise to myself during the hours I’ve spent staring at the wall.
I’m not going to be a victim.
I’m going to own this situation, and get myself out of here. I’m feeling better now whatever drugs the crazy bitch shot me with have worn off, and my mind feels sharper than ever.
I know Fay has locked the door, but there’s no internal lock, meaning it’s something she’s fitted herself to the outside.
Striding over to the door, I sweep my hands over it, my fingers stroking the indentations of the wood.
I’d already tried forcing the door open, but the lock didn’t budge. Whatever it was, it was doing its job well.
Keeping me locked in.
There has to be a way out.
I’d considered hiding behind the door and tackling Fay when she came in next; but she had a gun, and probably expected it from me.
No, I need to find another way.
There’s nothing in the room I can use as a weapon either, so it’s down to me, myself and I to find a way out.
The door has panels, so the only option I’ve got is kicking them in.
I’ve never been one for brute strength, but I have a feeling Fay has plans for me.
Plans that involve getting rid of me.
There’s not been a sound from anywhere in hours, so that means she must be out.
I don’t even have shoes on.
Moving to the floor, I raise my legs up, my feet lined up with the two panels at the bottom of the door.
Here goes nothing.
Bringing my knees to my chest, I push with all my might, the flat of my feet slamming against the wood as I take another breath, repeating the motion.
I must hit it four or five times until my knees begin to ache, but the door doesn’t budge.
I can’t give up.
I’m slamming my feet against it when I hear a faint crack, and my breath stings my throat with hope.
The shooting pains in my legs is agonising, but I grit my teeth and slam my feet against the panels again.
My heart pounds with adrenaline, and I let out a strangled cry of defiance when the door holds against the force of my feet.
“Come on!” I hiss, summoning all my strength to hit it one more time.
The splintering sound of wood fills my ears, and I scramble towards it on my hands and aching knees, searching for the weakness I’d created.
The wood groans against the weight of my pressing hands, and I giggle with delight. It’s one panel, but it’s all I need.
I’ll get through it.
With new strength I hurl my feet against it, knowing my knees can’t take much more.
The wood snaps, revealing the rotted core of its centre.
“Oh, God,” I whisper to myself, peering through the jagged gap.
I can see the linoleum floor, and hope siezes me, my survival instincts kicking in ten fold. I tear at the wood, my skin splitting as the wood splinters my fingers, fighting against me every step of the way.
Sorry knees, but I need you.
Hammering at the door with my feet, the wood gives way, creating a decent size for me to force my way through.
Once my head is through, the weight of my shoulders forces the door to bend, splinters digging into my skin as the wood tries to hold me tight.
Wriggling as much as I can, I ignore the blistering pain from the wood that’s eating into my skin, and manage to break through. The wood claws at my stomach, withering hands that can’t contain me no matter how much they try.
Dragging myself against the floor, I kick my legs furiously, thrusting myself out of the prison cell Fay had created for me.
I’m on my back, panting and in pain, but I’m free.
I want to lie here and recover, but I know this isn’t over.
Scrambling to my feet, I take in my surroundings.
The kitchen is exactly as I remembered, but when I examine the lock on the door, I find it’s padlocked, explaining why it wouldn’t budge.
The stairs that lead up to another door loom into the distance, and I push my bruised and battered body forward, wincing with pain. Something is dripping down my back, and I don’t know if it’s sweat or blood, nor do I care.
The stairs groan beneath my weight, but I try to move quickly. I don’t want to fall through a fucking rotting step now.
Please don’t be locked.
The door ahead looks newer than the other, and I’m praying I don’t have to battle this one.
I know I won’t win.
The silver handle glints at me in the distance, and I swallow my anxiety doen, refusing to think of the worst.
I’ve got this.
My bloodied fingers curl around the handle, the cool metal soothing them as I bend it.
The handle moves smoothly ninety degrees, and I close my eyes, bracing myself for my new reality.