Lena woke up, and it was very dark. She couldn't see anything in the basement at all. Turning over, and reaching behind her with her fingertips, she could feel the cardboard boxes. That was a little reassuring. It gave her a sense of familiarity; there was at least something here that she knew.
Again, thoughts ran through her head. If it was night, then there was a good chance that Mark was asleep. If she cut herself loose now, then she might be able to escape before Mark woke up. On the other hand, Mark might be right at the top of the stairs. For all she knew, he was sleeping during the daytime now, just to make sure she didn't escape at night. It occurred to her that thought was somewhat paranoid, but then she worried that maybe it wasn't paranoid. It was hard for her to be sure, one way or the other; she couldn’t be sure of her own objectivity.
She decided to at least check the knife. She pushed with her feet, and felt for the space between the two boxes with her hands. She felt the space, but too late to stop; she overshot it. She had to struggle to work her body the other direction on the floor. Finally, she found the space. Then she started working the knife out of the space. This was much easier in theory than in actual practice. The knife handle was slippery, and seemed as inclined to slide deeper between the boxes as to slide towards her. Finally, the knife was in her right hand. She experimented a little, turning the knife so that the sharp edge was on the outside, and the smooth edge against the ropes, trying to determine how hard would it be to cut through the ropes without slicing her own wrists in the process. It always looked so easy in the movies (of course, even ridiculous things looked easy in the movies); she suspected that it probably wasn't nearly that easy. She discovered that it was nearly impossible. There was a good chance that she was going to lose some blood if she ever actually tried to cut the ropes; maybe she would lose a lot of blood. With her wrists bleeding, how far would she be able to get in her escape attempt, before she passed out from loss of blood? Would she be able to get to a phone? She considered briefly her two visits upstairs. She didn't remember even seeing a phone. Maybe there weren't any. Mark had a cell phone; it stood to reason that his parents did, too. Why pay a phone bill at a house where you rarely spend any time, if you normally carry a cell phone anyway? Lena had no idea what Mark had done with her cell phone, but she had a pretty good idea that he had put both of their cell phones somewhere that she would have a hard time getting to, especially if she were in a hurry. Lena decided that if she did escape, she would have to try to reach a neighbor's house. Whichever house was closer, and looked more likely to have someone at home. After all, this is a beach house, on a Sunday night. There was a good chance that even if the neighbors had come to the beach for the weekend, that they would have already headed back to wherever they stayed during the week. She and Mark may very well be the only people on the beachfront this evening.
Lena prayed silently for God's direction. She asked him to help her to know when was the time that she should make her attempt, or even if she should make an attempt. She asked Him to take care of her; and she thanked Him for keeping her healthy and whole so far.
She started to slide the knife back between the boxes, but just as she did, she heard something upstairs. She paused, knife in hand, and listened. There was a kind of a pounding noise, and maybe some voices, but it was very muffled and she couldn't be sure what it was. Was this the visitor that she had imagined Mark was worried about, or had he brought in an accomplice?
Again, thoughts ran through her head. If it was night, then there was a good chance that Mark was asleep. If she cut herself loose now, then she might be able to escape before Mark woke up. On the other hand, Mark might be right at the top of the stairs. For all she knew, he was sleeping during the daytime now, just to make sure she didn't escape at night. It occurred to her that thought was somewhat paranoid, but then she worried that maybe it wasn't paranoid. It was hard for her to be sure, one way or the other; she couldn’t be sure of her own objectivity.
She decided to at least check the knife. She pushed with her feet, and felt for the space between the two boxes with her hands. She felt the space, but too late to stop; she overshot it. She had to struggle to work her body the other direction on the floor. Finally, she found the space. Then she started working the knife out of the space. This was much easier in theory than in actual practice. The knife handle was slippery, and seemed as inclined to slide deeper between the boxes as to slide towards her. Finally, the knife was in her right hand. She experimented a little, turning the knife so that the sharp edge was on the outside, and the smooth edge against the ropes, trying to determine how hard would it be to cut through the ropes without slicing her own wrists in the process. It always looked so easy in the movies (of course, even ridiculous things looked easy in the movies); she suspected that it probably wasn't nearly that easy. She discovered that it was nearly impossible. There was a good chance that she was going to lose some blood if she ever actually tried to cut the ropes; maybe she would lose a lot of blood. With her wrists bleeding, how far would she be able to get in her escape attempt, before she passed out from loss of blood? Would she be able to get to a phone? She considered briefly her two visits upstairs. She didn't remember even seeing a phone. Maybe there weren't any. Mark had a cell phone; it stood to reason that his parents did, too. Why pay a phone bill at a house where you rarely spend any time, if you normally carry a cell phone anyway? Lena had no idea what Mark had done with her cell phone, but she had a pretty good idea that he had put both of their cell phones somewhere that she would have a hard time getting to, especially if she were in a hurry. Lena decided that if she did escape, she would have to try to reach a neighbor's house. Whichever house was closer, and looked more likely to have someone at home. After all, this is a beach house, on a Sunday night. There was a good chance that even if the neighbors had come to the beach for the weekend, that they would have already headed back to wherever they stayed during the week. She and Mark may very well be the only people on the beachfront this evening.
Lena prayed silently for God's direction. She asked him to help her to know when was the time that she should make her attempt, or even if she should make an attempt. She asked Him to take care of her; and she thanked Him for keeping her healthy and whole so far.
She started to slide the knife back between the boxes, but just as she did, she heard something upstairs. She paused, knife in hand, and listened. There was a kind of a pounding noise, and maybe some voices, but it was very muffled and she couldn't be sure what it was. Was this the visitor that she had imagined Mark was worried about, or had he brought in an accomplice?
1 comment:
Some of you now know that, in addition to writing this (with your help), I am also reading Moby Dick. That is to say, I am plodding through very slowly. I am chapter 14 of Moby Dick, and have read more of that than I have written of "On the Lookout For Lena." I think most of us know the basic story of Moby Dick, a sometime sailor named Ishmael, signs on to a whaling ship captained by a man named Ahab who is obsessed with killing one particular whale. The interesting part to me is that I have read so far into the book, and I have not yet met Captain Ahab (neither has Ishmael). We have spent 14 chapters getting to know Ishmael and a harpooner that, by mutual consent, will sign on to the same ship that Ishmael does, so that we care what happens to them once they realize that they have committed themselves to serve Ahab in his obsession. Apparently, I should have penned considerably more about Edmond and Lena, so that the readers would care about them. Still, it's not like I'm getting paid by the word. I think that's why I prefer brevity, I've been forced to read so many "classic" books where it takes four pages for the protagonist to walk out his front door...
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