Handcuffs or Jail?

Chapter 22- 3 Hours

Chapter 22-

Elizabeth’s POV:

The first thing I realize when my brain begins leaving the land of the unconscious, is my shoulder is really, really stiff. As is my neck, and basically my whole body.

What happened to the bed in the forest apartment I’ve been sleeping in for the past two weeks?

I rack my brain, but can’t come up with a solution, and am too tired to get up and learn the answer.

Instead, I decide to roll over and go back to sleep.

I try, but something stopped me from rolling over. I pressed a bit harder against whatever was blocking my way and it let out a grunt.

I yelped and sat up, but not realizing I’d been pushed halfway under the edge of the bed at some point, resulted in me banging my head on the rim then bouncing back to hit the back of my head on the ground, equally as hard.

I moan a little bit and try to say ‘ow’ (because everyone knows that saying ‘ow’ when you’re hurt makes some of the pain go away), but a searing, raw pain in my throat at trying to talk brings everything reeling back to me: the cemetery, my fight with Kent, our failure of getting the handcuffs removed, losing our voices, the oddly-not-horrible conversation on the notepad last night, and then falling on the floor in the middle of the night after my conversation- I mean dream- with my mother.

“Stop making noise.” Kent grumbled from right next to me on the floor, looking at the ceiling with his eyes closed.

My eyes nearly pop out of my skull and if I wasn’t awake before I definitely am now. What on the huge planet earth is he doing next to me? He’s supposed to be in the bed- not sleeping next to him was one of my cons for sleeping on the floor.

I try to get up, but stop myself in time to not hit my head on the edge of the bed again, but with Kent in my way I’m stuck there. If only I could move the big oaf.

I try going back to sleep, but can’t calm down enough, so finally I decide poking him will probably wake him up and then I can get off this damn floor.

 I don’t think he vacuums under his bed. I’m starting to think something’s died under here.

 His eyebrows screw up in frustration before growling, “Stop it,” then coughs hard. His throat’s obviously still bothering him too, but at least he still has the ability of speech.

I don’t stop poking him, he grabs my finger, trying to get me to stop, but I reach over with my other hand and keep poking him.

Pretty soon I fall into a rhythmic pattern of poking his arm, and just when I’m about ready to give up because my arms starting to get really sore from holding it up so long, faster than I think possible he yanks my arm and pulls me on top of him, glaring at me right in the face.

Too startled by his sudden reaction and our position I find myself not returning his glare.

“What” he ground out through his teeth, “is the big idea?”

I go to answer him, but then remember my throat, and by the evil smile that creeps over his face I’m guessing he remembers too.

Again, before I can even consider moving from my position of laying on top of him, he roles us over so he’s the one on top of me, squishing me to the ground.

My cheek is squished right flat against his chest so much my eye won’t open, his knee is in a…compromising position, and my chest can barely rise for me to catch my breath.

As an immediately response I try and wiggle away- my attempts are hopeless, he’s too strong, well too heavy is more like it. I don’t even gain half an inch, and by now his breathing has evened out and he begins snoring.