How I ran away

How I broke the rules

Thump, thump, thump.

                I am on a road—cold metal reaches my cheeks—in a vehicle. I lie face down. My head pounding. The dirty floor is the only thing I see. I move my arm only for it to hit restraints. My legs too. I am bound. By the feel of it, it’s thick rope that keeps my arms tightly together behind me and my legs from coming apart. But it is tied so tightly, I feel it digging into my skin. It scratches against the gash left by the glass.

They take no chances.

My head hurts.

I want to lie still, for my eyes to close. For my body to sink back into unconsciousness. I don’t want to face this now. Pushing it off for a few hours wouldn’t hurt. My head kills.

                Too late anyway.

                 “Hey, Row, she’s up!” An ugly voice.

                I try to move my head up to locate it. To spot the source. Boxes. They obscure the minimal vision I have.

                “We’re two minutes from the base. I’ll take care of her there.”

                I cringe. I’ll take care of her. It would be nice if he meant it in a fatherly kind of way. His tone implied otherwise.

                And his voice. I can’t imagine any father with a voice that revolting. Cold and raspy. Tempered and mean. Cruel. He sounds cruel. They all do.

                And my head is pounding. It’s like a fist knocking on my skull repeatedly, in the place where they hit. Just above my right ear. Any lower and it would’ve hit it. And I may have been deaf in that ear.

                Whoever hit, hit hard.

                “Ahh,” the truck bounces hard on a bump. The rope pulls against the gash on my hand. I feel a liquid creeping down my wrist. Blood.

                Screeeech! The truck lurches to a halt.

                Feet shuffling. Voices speaking. Moving around.

                “Untie her legs so she can walk.”

                Sunlight streams in as the back doors open. A second later rough hands are pulling at the rope at my feet. Like that will help it come free. A moment later brings something cold. A knife. The man attending the ropes makes no attempt to be cautious as he cuts through it. A piercing pain in my skin as he tries to cut it loose. he probably does it purposely. Wants me to be in pain. I crush my eyes shut and endure the pain. I’m happy they didn’t see me wince. I don’t enjoy looking weak.

                The rough hands pull me from the truck and place me on my feet. I stand unsteadily.

                I squint in the too-bright sun. I try to blink away the black dots that dance in my vision to clear it. A dirt road comes to view. Twisty and curvy although I see zooming cars in the distant that say highway. Behind me is a rundown house. A shack.

                Suddenly I realize that if I’m to escape it must be now. Run down the road is all I can do but it must be done. Once I enter the house I know there is no escape. That would be it—the end.

                As if reading my mind the man that cut my foot says “Don’t try anything.” Something cold presses against my neck to enforce that. The cold barrel of a gun. one shot and I’m dead.