Knife's Edge

CHAPTER TWENTY

I sob into the sock and use my other hand to prop my lifeless elbow against the small table next to me, the movement agony. This time when I yank the belt I refuse to let go, even when my ears pop and little black spots dance across my vision. As I pull, I push down against the table top, using it to help force my arm up.

He had definitely said to pull it up into place. I don't know many words, but I know what up means.

A whooshing sound starts in my ears and I have no choice but to give up as I keel over, spitting out the bile that forces its way up into my throat. I pull the soggy sock out of my mouth as I feel more rising, my mouth tasting like the tang of metal.

My body heaves, jolting my shoulder, and I choke on the pain as I bring up the nothingness in my tummy, leaving only a small puddle of watery liquid on the concrete floor beneath me.

When it's over, I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my tatty top, watery vomit mixing with tears and snot, soaking through the material. Then, although it looks icky, lying soggy and abandoned on the ground by my bare foot, I reach down and shove the sock back into my mouth.

I have to be quiet.

I reach for the belt, lean against the table, and try again.

And again.

...And again.

The more times I fail, the less my shoulder seems to hurt – the fire replaced with an icy numb feeling – and I start to think that I might be making it better. Then, I realise that I still can't feel my fingers and I start to think that, maybe, I might be making it worse.

I wait for a few minutes, hoping that if I leave it alone for a while, I might be able to wiggle my fingers again. When I still can't, I sob a tearless sob, my eyes too dry to leak anymore.

My fault; this is my fault.

I should've known better than to ask for a glass of water. I should've known better than to go into the kitchen. I should've known better than to leave this room, at all – we're never allowed up into the main house when he has people over.

There was a man upstairs even more hurt than me; I've not seen him before. He was covered in red water; it was dripping down his face. The others were clearing up the huge mess it had made while he slept.

The scary man – the one who doesn't like us making noise – doesn't like mess, either.

"Jade?"

The voice is so quiet, I barely hear my name. Bailey.

I glance over at her, feeling so tired I wish I could sleep like that other man is.

Bailey's eyes are wide as plates, her knuckles white from squeezing Mr. Bunny so hard. She looks scared.

I don't know how I do it but, somehow, I manage a smile. It's small, so small that I'm not sure at first if my lips have even moved, but she sees it. I can tell because, as soon as she does, she doesn't look so scared.

Bailey needs me to be okay; so I'm going to be okay.

Slowly, I reach for the belt again.

For Bailey, I'll keep trying.

In a perfect world, it would work this time. In an even more perfect world, it would've worked the first time. But this is my world. In my world, it takes another three attempts before something seems to happen.

A crunch.

A pop.

Then a loud bang.