Chapter 52nd

As soon as Chris was gone, so the strength supporting my upper body seemed to leave me, and I collapsed, drooping my forehead all the way to the floor, where I covered my head in my hands and allowed panic to set in.

The cop partook in that same, overwhelming feeling:

"Abby… wh-what is happening?" He pulled himself from the floor, sat up, imbued with agitation now that I had none. "Abby?" he called, crawling closer to me. I stole one peep from behind my fingers: his eye grew purple, swollen. His face was transformed with fright… it filled me with dread to look at him.

"Abby!!" he screamed when I cowardly concealed my eyes again "What's going on, what is he – what did he… what… What did you do??!!" The accusation thundered at last!

"I'm sorry!!" was all I could weep from my self-conjured cocoon.

"You're sorry? Why – what…" he panted, trying to piece things together. His voice felt like a stab to my ear, it had a metallic ring to it… it was wet, desperate, and pretty soon it was angry, inflamed with burning injustice: "WHAT DID YOU SAY TO HIM?!"

It made me spring to my feet – that coward agitation of not wanting to face him. But there was nowhere to hide down there, nowhere to conceal my shame and close off my ears.

"ABBY!!" He roared, understanding exactly what had happened, and exactly what was about to. While I… I paced around the basement, my face moist with tears, a cornered ant's agitation.

But then, as I paced, it ignited anew: hope! One last time, one last breath… After all, I was walking! I looked up the stairs, wondering how long he would be up there, gathering whatever tools he needed to come down and terrorize us both. Maybe long enough!

"Abby?" The cop asked, his voice more composed, more eager, noticing something different about the agitation that befell me then.

"I know!" I mumbled to myself, then louder, for both of us "I know what to do!!"

He breathed out… was it relief?

I was left unbound – with the exception of my hands. The duct tape was wrapped so tight around my wrists, I couldn't possibly break myself free with strength alone… but precisely because they were stretched so thin, perhaps I could cut them, if only I found some object to aid me in that. And what better place to find tools than the basement?

"I need something…" I thought aloud, forcing my arms apart as wide as the restraint allowed me, and holding it up in view. "I need something sharp!"

Finally, it contaminated him: my agitation. Hope, again:

"Yes! Something sharp…" he repeated, unable to contribute with much else at that point.

I paced clumsily around the basement, feeling time drip on - not enough of it to try to be gentle or silent: clutter was scattered around the floor as I pulled and turned drawers, kicked down boxes, rummaged through cupboards. Soon, I walked around aimlessly through plastic recipients, old toys, hoses… nothing that could hold against my bindings. Until at last the cop saw what I couldn't, in my fearful agitation:

"Th-there!!!" He pointed with his head, too eager for organized speech "That shovel! That will do it!"

Yes! Of course! That shovel tossed aside by the wall, next to my earliest and perhaps most desperate attempt. The token of defeat now imbued with new life, I swam through clutter to reach it!

"Here! Bring it here!" the cop commanded, and I ran to him, dropping down and gladly following his lead, as he seemed to have awakened to a plan.

"Put them here… between my knees!"

I obeyed, and with his instruction, proceeded to scrape my bound hands back and forth on the restrained shovel, trying to cut it. But holding it together between his shaky knees was no easy feat, nor was hitting the perfectly thin stretch of tape between my hands, and I repeatedly failed, falling over his legs. Fear and hurry made for terrible coordination too, but I eventually managed – eventually, I grew desperate enough that I didn't care if I felt the shovel poised exactly on my skin, ready to scrape off a sheet of flesh on its wake. I cared only about forcing my hands down until I had broken through the tape. Blood dripped fast, the burning sensation grew slowly, and soon enough it stung. But I was free.

I pulled my hands apart, yanked the tape off, held and pressed down the scrape as the pain grew. When I lifted my head from the bloody mess I had made, I met his eyes – the cop's – they were sorry for me, there was no denying it… but agitation urged him:

"No time…" he sighed filled with pity "There's no time… You have to get moving!"

"Right!" I took a deep breath, released my wound, my hand dripping, shaking. I put it to his shoulder, began moving him to the side, he resisted:

"No! It's no use!" he interrupted me energetically "It needs a key!"

I looked down at his handcuffed hands behind his back.

"Then I'll…" I tried to think "I'll use the shovel!"

He quickly shook his head with a negative, eager to get me to listen. "There's no time! You won't make it!"

"Then…" I was beginning to run out of options. I looked up the steps, to where Chris had followed. Should I go there too? Should I try to escape? The fear of risking it and being captured half-way… of opening that door and finding him standing right there, it was too much to bear – too deadly upon that hard-earned expectation we had just achieved through cutting open my duct tape. My wound stung. Burned. I pressed it.

"No! You can't go up there!!" The cop spoke quickly, intercepting my thoughts "He'll grab you again!"

"Then… then what should I do?!" I despaired at last.

"There's only one thing we can try…" he heaved, nervous… pondering. "Only you can try…" and I saw it when the consideration turned somber for him – small prospects. "And you HAVE to do it!!" He reinforced somberly.