Filled with only the essentials, I tucked the bag under a pile of laundry in the closet’s corner. I closed the door and waited. Silence filled the apartment, and I dared to breathe. Months of planning, scheming, subterfuge, and second-guessing had brought me here. Perched on the brink, I wondered if I possessed the courage to jump.
“What are you doing?”
He reeked of vodka. His question froze my blood making my heart pound as it tried to keep me alive.
“I cleaned. I know you don’t like when things are messy.”
The voice was mine, it echoed in my ears He studied the room before his piercing eyes returned to study me. My hands betrayed me. They trembled and I jammed them on my hips, elbows thrust wide, hoping I exuded confidence.
He turned, and I nearly laughed. Then, he stopped time. Unable to move, the scene unfolded, and he dangled my escape in front of me. So close, I could almost touch it.
I gulped precious air. I planned for this, rehearsed my lines.
“Isn’t that yours?”
He ripped the zipper open and shook the contents free, never showing a single emotion.
“Is this some sick trick? Why is my stuff, in your bag?” I let my anger and rage creep into my questions.
I didn’t see it coming, but I lay on the floor, his shoes walking away.
I fished my phone from my pocket and called 911. It was now, my only way out.
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer