Chapter 23rd

Escaping his absorbed grip, I stumbled and skidded through the floorboards until I had regained my impaired balance – albeit poorly: my legs still sore and heavy, my head throbbing with adrenaline's backlash. Still, I stood up straight and ran, gaining my way into the kitchen while Chris recovered from the unexpected blow. No time to take pride in subverting his low expectations for me: in the kitchen, I tried the door – idiotically so! The wooden frame shook with my almost hysterical attempt, and for a second it even looked like it might collapse, but ultimately it didn't, and I didn't have forever to try: Chris was up again. I heard him rustle against the wall as he limped my way.

Panic imbued my limbs, gravity felt heavy. I ran to the counter, to the drawer, feeling – hearing it as Chris gained up on me. My hands weren't fast enough, not as precise as I needed them to be… nor was my resolve. The clattering of silverware deafened his approach, but I didn't need to hear it to know it was imminent. Unwilling as I was to yield it, I had little else for a choice: I turned around just in time to face him, holding up a knife.

Was it enough to give him pause? I didn't have the time to register: I advanced towards him, uttering a cry of sheer horror at both the prospect of failing and of succeeding, but whatever uncomfortable hope I had of hitting my mark and stabbing the man I adored was short-lived: Chris leaned back, caught by surprise but still able to dodge my initial swing. Next, he stepped forward, pinning my stretched arm under his and pulling me to him in an immobilizing embrace – one where I had no choice but to face him, having failed.

Fear dripped at my sanity, making me desperately try to yank myself free to try again. With one small drop of the head, Chris headbutted me. My knife was the first to fall, clattering on the tiles… then backwards I went, and finally down, too: my vision getting blurry and dark.

I fell on his feet, and blind though I was, I held on to his jeans, strangely determined to keep him there – to carry on with the fight. I think he enjoyed watching my dumb struggle from his height as I dizzily tried to pick myself up, because half a minute later I had recovered enough to carry on: I tried to yank him down as I simultaneously got up, groaning my motivation into a fistful punch.

Too slow! Too pretentious! Chris grabbed me by the hair before I could pick myself up. I let go of him immediately and fell back down, moved by the desperate need to pry his fingers open.

"There now!" He spoke as I skidded through the floor, trying to hold his hands. "That will make you listen…"

It didn't: Realizing I stood no chance against his grip, I attacked his legs, holding them together and applying all my weight on pushing them down, until I had brought him down like a hollow tree.

It wasn't as effective as I'd anticipated, for he fell over me, easily caging me between his securing arms. Still I managed to get some upper hand and pushed him from me, and squeezed myself from him, pushing him away. He grabbed my arms – one at a time – and I'd pull one free before he could arrest the other, repeatedly so with the aid of my legs keeping him at a safe distance.

Thus, we struggled confusedly on the floor for a short while before I began to reason that I would tire out much faster than him – incoming exhaustion showed me that. Deciding to focus my effort, I threw one single sluggish punch - ill-thrown, Chris dodged, I managed to swing around myself and land on my own stomach on the hard, cold floor – breathless and exhausted. Failing again, and failing repeatedly, I began to crawl away from that losing fight, seeking easy shelter under the table, then between the chairs, towards that knife.

Chris stood up, swung the table away, kicked the chairs off and stormed towards me. He grabbed me by my ankles and pulled me once. I screamed and kicked back, and quickly elbowed towards my only chance again, but was once more prevented.

I stretched my arm as far as I could, but failed to reach the knife by very little. As Chris gained up on me, an overwhelming fear that the very same knife that offered me hope might be my undoing pushed my hand: looking back over my shoulder to mark his closeness, I no longer wanted to reach the knife, no longer wanted it close. Dreading it, I pushed one of the chairs against it, and the knife skidded further away, hurled into the corridor, where he couldn't reach it.

Chris had just knelt around me, one leg on each side, and swung me around by my shoulder in an abrupt jerk. He easily detained a slow blow I attempted to throw, pinned both my arms down against the floor and finally found the mirth to chuckle:

"What? You think I need that to keep you in check?" He teased, throwing his glance at the knife. "I don't!"

He tightened his fingers around my wrists, yanking a desperate groan from me and proving his point – an obvious truth I failed to consider in my very short-lived accomplishment. Panting, groaning, and frankly nearly crying, I drove my knee upwards to try and strike him… but I was too slow, I was too weak: Chris easily secured my blow by tightening his legs around me, rendering me more helpless than I already was. I groaned, whimpering a coward cry as I neared my limit, achieving nothing!

"Still fighting, I see!" Chris remarked, tightening his grip around my wrist just as I tried to struggle.

His collected demeanor – calm, amused, self-possessed – only added to my despair. With my free hand I attacked his fingers, trying to pry them open to release my arrested member. As soon as it receded – his snake grip – I began administering a series of blows and slaps which Chris braved by merely turning his head downwards to shield his face. I suspect I heard him snivel… heard him belittle my utmost attempt, taking each blow as if they were nothing. My chest grew icy-cold, the air sucked out by fear… and for the first time, I realized the full extent of the trouble I was in… of how little likely I was of getting myself out, if it depended on that. Nothing could be done!

Chris raised his head, briefly pulled the drooping locks of his hair from his eyes and, glancing down at me, smiled:

"Are you all done?"

My chest ached… expanding, contracting spasmodically, and, finally, shaking.

Hopelessness, anguish, fear and rage mingled undistinguishably… Then, I don't know why, I spit: something primitive drove me, like a last suicidal form of offense when so trapped and rendered helpless.

Chris was caught by surprise. Finally, his smile came undone, the muscles around his mouth hardened, his jaw clenched. He wiped his brow where I had hit him and, looking down at me with a sigh – an impatient sigh, coupled with a long and uncertain pause – he put his hands around my throat.