“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry,” I chant over and over, and I press my hand to the side of his face so he’ll look at me. When he opens his eyes, they’re lit with fire and agony and rage. It’s a scary combination, but it gives me the strength I need to steel my resolve. I take his elbow and help him up, but he’s so blinded by pain that he stumbles and I wind up grabbing hold of his arm to keep him upright.
He holds his broken hands aloft as he wraps me in his big arms and squeezes me as tightly as he can with only his biceps to anchor me to his body. “We’re gonna get out of here. I’m gonna get you out, and I’m gonna put a knife through that fucker’s skull.”
“How?” I say, carefully stepping out of his embrace in order to see him better. “How do we get out? Both your hands are broken and I weigh next to nothing. We’re no match for him, Tank.”
“I’ve never met a man I couldn’t kill, babe. Why the hell do you think I’ve been around to annoy you for so fuckin’ long? I’m gonna need your help, though. You’ll distract him while I move in. First, we gotta kill the light.”
I shake my head. “The lamp I can turn on and off, but the switch for the overhead light is outside the room.”
“I need you to smash the light bulb, babe.”
“But the noise will bring him running.”
“Exactly.” Tank leans down and reaches for the belt, and I help him when I realise what he plans to do with it.
“Your hands are broken,” And my voice sounds pitying and small, even to me. “How are you going to hold it tight enough?”
“Don’t you worry about me. Listen, when I wrap this thing around his neck, I need you to promise me you’ll run. Get outta here, flee, and don’t you dare fuckin’ look back. You run as far as you possibly can, and then you call Prez for help.”
I shake my head. “I’m not leaving you. He’ll kill you.”
“He’ll try.”
“You can’t fight him with two broken hands,” I argue.
His eyes placate me. They hold me in an embrace when his arms can’t. “I told you I’d break every bone in my body to keep you safe. I meant it.”
“This is crazy; there has to be another way.”
“We gotta do this now, Ivy. Promise me you’ll run, no matter what you hear. You run and you keep runnin’.”
“I promise,” I say through my tears, but I’ve broken promises to him before. What’s another one? No way am I going to leave him down here at the mercy of my father.
“Thatta girl,” Tank says, and he kisses me before gritting his teeth and wrapping the ends of the belt tightly around his hands. His arms shake as he does this, and his face twists with pain, but then his eyes meet mine, and his determination spurs on my own.
I nod, and then I wait until he moves back into the shadows on the other side of the room before I yank the lamp from the wall. I hurl it at the ceiling. The light bulb shatters, the lamp splinters into what sounds like several pieces on the floor and glass rains down all around us, littering the ground. The room is pitch black, save for the light that creeps in through the tiny gap around the door.
Above, I hear footsteps through the living room, and then on the stairs. My heart races, and I wish I could see him in the dark. When my father slides the locks free and opens the door I get a glimpse of Tank’s outline, a warrior, a gladiator veiled in shadow, just waiting for the right time to strike. And then I have to avert my gaze so I don’t give everything away.
My father stands in the doorway, the dim glow from the stairwell burning my eyes after the long seconds of darkness. He’s silhouetted by light, and it isn’t until he moves that I realise he’s holding the axe in his hands. My blood turns to ice in my veins, and all of the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A small cry escapes my throat as he moves into the room.
“You’ve been a very naughty little girl, Ivy,” he says, and I don’t disagree. Breaking the light was stupid; this whole thing was stupid. We can’t escape. The best I can hope for is that he kills Tank quickly, but I am never getting out of this room, and I am never going to forget the sounds, the rush of wind as he swings the axe, and the way Tank’s head will hit the floor. After all, I’ve never forgotten those things about my mother’s death. I’ve never forgotten the metallic tang of blood in the air, or the taste of it on my tongue as it misted into my open mouth.
His boots crunch on the broken glass as he crosses the floor towards me. He glances at the wall where Tank should be, but without the overhead light he’s as blind as I am to that corner of the room. My breath cycles hard and fast through my lungs, and I scream when I see him heft the axe over his shoulder but he doesn’t swing it, only rests it there so that even in the dimness I can see the glinting silver blade, and practically feel the metal against my flesh.
My father turns to me. He doesn’t understand my outburst, or maybe he does and he’s just toying with me, dangling a knife over my head and threatening to drop it.
“My sweet girl,” he says, reaching out to touch my face. I draw back, but he grabs my arm and yanks me to him. “I’ve missed your temper tantrums.”
Tank looms behind my father. The pop and splinter of glass under his boot echoes throughout the room and fear splits my heart in two as my father’s eyes grow wide with realisation. He’s too late though. The belt whips around my father’s head and Tank yanks him back against his huge body, suffocating him.
My father is not a small man. He may not be as strong as Tank, but he’s a worthy enough opponent, and the second the axe falls to the floor with a thud—somehow missing both their feet—he begins struggling. It’s too dark for him to see Tank’s broken hands, but he’s already figured out the chink in his armour. Instead of clutching at the belt that’s cutting off his air supply, he slams his hands down on top of Tank’s, sinking his fingers into raw, exposed meat, causing him to roar wildly. He doesn’t let go, though. If anything Tank pulls harder, shoving his knee against my father’s back in order to gain more leverage.
I can see how hard it is for him, how much agony he’s in, how tired. I cast my eyes around for something, anything—a piece of glass, my father’s pocket knife—and then my gaze falls on the glinting silver at their feet. I drop to my knees, ignoring the sharp bite of glass embedded in my legs, I reach for it. I scrabble for purchase, and it slips out of my hands twice before I can snatch it up. With a battle cry I thought myself incapable of, I heft the axe and swing, burying it in his chest, cleaving him right down the middle. His gaze widens as blood bubbles up out of the cavern I created in his torso. I don’t flinch; I don’t blink. I don’t even breathe as he falls towards me, reaching for me as the long handle protrudes from his chest and hits me in the arm. I barely notice that pain. He slumps forward, and on shaking legs I dart out of the way. The axe handle wedges itself between the mattress and the bedsprings so that his weight falls on top of it and his body is suspended off the bed, like a scarecrow blown over in a strong wind.
I shut my eyes against the image of my father impaled, suspended as his blood slowly pools on the floor beneath him. I half expect him to get up and fight back, pulling the axe from his chest and swinging it down on us, but he doesn’t, because despite the fact that my life has felt a lot like a horror movie at times, it isn’t one. It’s been a nightmare up until this point, but the shadows didn’t win.
I did.
We did.
Behind me, Tank’s ragged breath draws my attention. I whirl around. He stumbles back into the dresser, clutching his side with his broken hands, and then my entire world comes to a screeching halt as all 115kg of his hard, muscled frame hits the floor.