Chapter 18 rewrite

Back in the basement again, Lena was thankful that she had been able to keep the knife pinned in between her arm and her back without cutting herself, while Mark tied her hands. At least, she hoped she hadn't cut herself; the knife seemed sharp enough that she might not feel it actually cut her, but at least she didn't feel any blood. It occurred to her that she shouldn't try to keep the knife on her, but she probably shouldn't cut the ropes just yet, either; Mark would know something was up if he came downstairs and she wasn’t tied up. She wanted to the blade close by, but not on her person, in case Mark searched her, or decided to watch her take a shower. At this point, she was starting to think it would be worth it to let him watch, just to be able to shower. Still, if she did get a shower, she would have to put the same clothes back on, and these clothes could just about stand up by themselves. She had never in her life worn the same clothes for so long... She discovered that, with her hands tied together, the knife didn't slip out of her left sleeve nearly as easy as it had slid in. By holding her arm as far out from her body as she could, and shaking it as hard as she dared with a sharp knife in her sleeve, she was able to get it to slide far enough down her sleeve that she could just reach the handle with the tips of the fingers of her right hand. Each time she tried to get a grip on it, though, it slipped farther back up her sleeve. She couldn't risk having it cut her, it might hit a main artery and she could bleed to death before Mark even realized that there was anything wrong. It wasn’t like Mark checked on her very often. She didn't think she would ever forgive Mark for this. Even if she didn’t bleed to death, Mark would undoubtedly become suspicious if he found her lying in a puddle of blood. Finally, she managed to work the knife far enough down that she could actually grip it with her hand. Carefully, she slid it out of her sleeve. Now, what to do with it? Her eyes were slowly adjusting to the dim light, and she looked around to try to find a good hiding place. She needed something easily accessible, and at the same time, someplace where the knife would not be easily seen. Right now, the best place seemed to be under the stairs, but she couldn't make much of anything out, yet. The stairs were a good distance from where she was; unless she cut herself loose first, it would take her several minutes to get over to the stairs, and several more to get back. She might leave a trail on the floor, too; she wasn't sure how clean it was. By rolling onto her stomach, and then pushing with her left shoulder and her left knee, she managed to turn over. She found herself facing several cardboard boxes. There was a space in between two of the boxes just about the right size to conceal the knife from a cursory inspection. She scooted herself along the floor until the space was at her waist, then flipped back over again. She felt for the space between boxes, and then deposited the knife in it. Then she made sure that could get the blade back out when she was ready to use it, and scooted back to her original position, hoping that she hadn't disturbed the dust on the floor too much. Of course, questions remained, such as: Would she ever actually get the chance to use the knife? Would she recognize that chance if she got it? What would that chance look or sound like? Would Mark notice the knife missing before she got the chance? She tried to stop the thoughts in her head. If something did happen, she wanted to be well rested, not that it seemed likely under these circumstances. She lay awake for a while, worrying and fretting and trying to figure out what she could do, and trying not to worry, fret or figure. Eventually she drifted off into a troubled sleep.