Take Away the Saints

Mimesis : Lady with an Ermine || Nick Blakeslee

The cuff wouldn't slide off easily. Her hand pulsed, she knew she had to get it off before it completely swelled. Reyes pushed against the metal, wedged the cuff between her feet and pulled with what little strength she had. Skin folded in on itself, metal grated against bone, eyes closed, she pulled with everything she had. The world narrowed, a fuzzy blackness crept at the edges of her vision, finally her hand came free.

Heart pounding madly on the bones of her rib cage, sweat already soaked her shirt, and the thought of going into shock lay heavily on her. Her hands were trembling, her right a mangled mess of flesh, blood and broken bone.

Stairs creaked as she moved up them, less walking more stumbling, holding the handrail with her good hand. The trapdoor was closed, around the frame a small sliver of light shot out. Her heart sank, finally a bit of that despair threatened to take her; it would be locked for sure.

But when she pushed, the door creaked open.

She was in a dimly lit room. Concrete everywhere, shelving around the sides and a pervasive smell of gasoline. This was the garage.

Sarah grabbed the handle of another door, her heart felt lighter when it turned easily. She waited for that music to fill her ears, the classical kind from before. But it was silent, beyond her labored breathing. The door opened to an overbuilt kitchen, with marble counter tops, tiled floors and expensive things a house wife would swoon over. Before she could stop herself, she tumbled to the floor and landed on her hand. Needles shot up her arm, her eyes swam with tears, a vice seized her and kept air from escaping her lungs. She got up shakily, cradling her hand against her chest. After a moment, when her breath came back, she pulled a knife from a block on the countertop.

In the living room, another easel sat upright, she was going to check it but saw the front door and survival won over curiosity. But the handle to the door wouldn't move. She looked down to find a lock on her side of the door, tried fruitlessly at the handle again.

There had been a backdoor near the kitchen. But when she got there it was the same story: door lock on both sides.

It didn't matter, windows could be shattered.

Back in the kitchen, after searching through almost every drawer, she found a metal tenderizer. She left the knife on the countertop and picked up the mallet in her left hand. The weight of it felt good.

For a moment she paused and listened. Waited to hear the creak of floorboards from upstairs or the click of a door opening or closing. If anyone was in the house, if he was here, he'd most definitely hear the window shattering. Could she get out before he got her?

But seeing the world, beyond the two or three inches of glass, gave her courage. She could see the street, darkened by the pitch of midnight. Freedom was a single throw away.

The front window was biggest, she reeled back and threw the metal mallet, squinting and covering her eyes from the shattered glass.

But she didn't hear a sound of a breaking window, instead a dull thud. When she opened her eyes, she saw the window was fine, beyond the tiny mark her tenderizer had left. She reached out and touched it, but it wasn't glass at all. It was a sort of plastic. She brought the mallet down again, but all it did was send a shockwave through her arm.

Sarah picked up the mallet and moved to the dining room, she pulled back, teeth frozen in a grimace, and brought the mallet against another window. Again, a dull thud and the hammer bounced back.

Frantic now, panic beginning to set in, she stumbled from window to window, only to find that every single one was made of the reinforced plastic. Again she hit—each strike punctuated by a cry from the back of her throat—and again the hammer bounced uselessly.