Chapter 53rd

"Do what?!"

The cop was silent, hesitant.

"DO WHAT?!" I repeated nervously.

And why did it faulter so - his faith in me? What could he have in mind, that seemed so unlikely to work?

With a pessimistic sigh, he explained: The only chance we stood at that point, with his hands handcuffed behind his back and mine magically free, was for me to fight for both of our lives. But how could I possibly win against a man like Chris? Had I failed to demonstrate my impotence in our previous clashes? I couldn't… not if I were to bet on strength. But that was the catch: The cop figured it might not have to depend on that alone.

Our prospects of success would rely on me putting the duct tape around my wrists again, only for show, and lying quietly on the floor across from the cop. I was to leave the small shovel strategically positioned halfway between the two of us. Chances were that when Chris returned, he would come to me first, to stand over me and watch from his superior height my very low estate, my helpless defeat… He'd stand there to prove his point, he might even kick me or push me around, and I'd have to be firm, to lay quietly and submissively through whatever he did, protecting the duct tape from coming loose and exposing my plan. Eventually, when Chris was done with me and turned around to face the cop – to kill him – I'd pull my hands free, pick up the shovel silently, and strike Chris from behind.

The spot was the essence of it, and not force alone: I had to plant the shovel in his neck – anywhere else and I might fail from lack of strength. "If you miss, he'll kill us" the cop reinforced "If you hit him in the right place, he might resist, turn around and strike you, maybe even stab you…" his eyes narrowed, disturbed at the idea "…but he'll bleed out in two minutes. He will die, and we'll be saved!"

I didn't have to say a word… to utter my terror at that idea. Joe saw it in my expression: the need to further reinforce, to try and instill into my sick brain the importance that I succeed.

"Listen to me…" he called, urging my stagnant view to find him there "…this is our only chance. If you do this…"

"I can't…" I mumbled, the words escaping me like a flood.

"LISTEN – if you do this, we are free!"

"I can't!" that small voice repeated.

"You can! You have to!!!" he roared, then his voice trailed off, more thoughtful "…or we're both going to die!".

I leaned on a cabinet, then sat down, my body slowly collapsing into a comfortable position as I mused. A comfortable position… a soft spot on his neck, soft enough to bury a shovel into, to draw blood, inflict a lethal wound – therein lay our chance of survival, behind all that effort, all that blood. Chris's blood! His blood all over me, all over the floor, everywhere, spilling…

"I can't!" I repeated, a cowardly mumble.

"Abby, please! Listen to me!"

"I can't do it" I frowned, wincing at the off-putting idea "I'm not strong enough!"

"Strength has nothing to do with it, just resolve! Decide you can do it, and commit to pushing that shovel in until you can't no more – until we are both free to leave this place with our lives!" He pleaded ardently.

"I can't do that!"

"At least try then!!"

"If I try, I will fail"

"No, no – listen to me! You have to at least try! Promise me you will! Come on!" he demanded "You owe us that much!"

I looked up into his eyes, seeking compassion:

"If I try, and fail, he'll only…"

"HEY!" he called, pulling me from my disturbed ranting before it could start "Listen! We've got nothing to lose! It changes nothing: if you fail, if you don't even try, he'll kill you all the same!"

"Nothing to lose…" he repeated, sensing some hesitation.

"You've got nothing to lose…" I breathed out, my breath tensing up. "There's plenty for me to earn, too: more violence, more bruising… my… " I thought I heard the sound of it in my head "…my bones breaking."

"Does any of it matter, if you have a shot at living?!"

I put my hands to my temples.

"Come on, Abby! It's our only shot! You can do this!" He reinforced, self-assured – confident and tranquil in the passive part he would play, a mere spectator to the worst deed I could ever pull off in my life!

And could I pull it off, really? Supposing I really found the mental strength to try, could I? Was the flesh really so soft? Chris's empty, surprised blue eyes staring at me as he bled out, what would I see in them? What would he say to me, if he had the time, before dying? …All those technicalities, was any of them the real issue? No.

I looked down at my hands, at the small garden shovel: the issue was that I couldn't do it! I couldn't bring myself to kill Chris! Not after… not even because… not even if…. I groaned, pain-filled. I couldn't go that far, even if this was all my fault! I turned to the cop, defeat and despair no doubt overflowing in my eyes, my shaky, panicky limbs accepting it: that I'd doom us both, because I wouldn't try.

"You can do it…" he ushered feebly, counting on my compliance, while I shook like a tree, having made up my mind – my coward mind – that I wouldn't try it. I wouldn't, because I was terrified of succeeding.

But I'd try – I told his optimistic smile as much. I'd try… but only faintly so, only so… - I sobbed, sat on the floor, then crouched, then laid down as he instructed me, my head spinning – …only so Joe wouldn't die knowing I refused to save him.

Why should it matter? – I tried consoling myself. I wouldn't outlive him by much. He'd have a very short window of time to haunt me, before we met again.

"Yes…" he smiled as hope imbued him "yes… you can do it! I know you can!"

Hope! There it was again, in someone else this time, reflected like a mirror: seeing it in him, I looked back and realized how silly I was for ever entertaining it. That final stretch of my life was painful enough without it!