Roots [Completed]

Chapter 3 - Part 7

\\tw: trauma, depression, coercion, suicide\\

[Closer by The Tiny]

"Jane."

I look up at Sam. He's standing over me. I'm slightly surprised to see him - is it lunch, time, already? Or the evening? I haven't moved out of bed. How time flies.

"Was there someone else, Jane? That loved you like I do? Treated you like I do?"

I don't hesitate. I shake my head.

Sam sits down on the bed next to me. Takes my shoulders in his hands. "I won't be mad," he promises softly. "Not at you."

I shake my head again.

Sam sighs. Leans forward, pressing our foreheads together.

"Touch me, Jane," he breathes.

So I lift my shaking hands. I plant them to the sides of his face, through his hair, down his shoulders. And he kisses, and he presses, and he gets closer and closer every day.

"I love you," he tells me. "I will fight for you."

The words don't take shape in my mind.

-

I notice it at a bad time.

Sam is about to arrive, I think. I can never be sure when he will come. I don't think he's inconsistent - I've just lost my grip, a little, on the way time moves. But something in my gut tells me he'll be here soon.

This is when I notice something strange in the room.

The porch door. It's open, a crack.

My heart pounds for the first time, it feels like, in years. Through the crack, I see a sky, unfiltered by glass or wall. Blue. That's my favorite color. It's the color of the ocean, and rain, and some very pretty eyes.

It's takes three minutes before I realize what it really means. The porch door. Is open. Unlocked. The sky.

So close.

I stand on shaking feet. I don't know how long it's been since I ate, but it can't have been too long; I'm still alive. Sam wouldn't let me die.

I try to walk over to it casually. The guards don't take as much notice of me, now, as they used to. I've had too many days of good behavior. They hardly glance up as I move around, getting closer and closer to that inch of fresh air.

When I get to the door, I pause. The porch is wide, about fifteen feet between the door and the railing. It's beautiful, I think. I breathe for a moment, remembering the feeling of the sun on my skin.

And then, without ceremony, I rip the door open and topple over the side of the balcony.

For a moment, I'm free. The wind is rushing and pushing against me, but it's air and it's fresh and I'm flying in it, allowing myself to get tangled in the breezeway. I close my eyes, because I know it can't last - the ground will come, and it will be real and painful. But for the first time in what feels like years, I'm free. Free.

Until my hand is captured in a familiar grip. My body slams down into reality, anchored by my hand, and it jolts my shoulder so painfully that I wonder if it's dislocated.

"No! No!" My voice is hoarse and desperate, nothing like it used to be. Did it used to be different? Was I ever anyone else? It seems to hard to imagine a version of myself before hell.

I writhe in midair, but Sam doesn't relent, his grip on my hand so strong that I can already feel the bruises forming. I scratch at the flesh on my wrist until I draw my own blood. I would cut off my arm if I could. It's the only thing keeping me chained to him.