Off the Grid

Claire put on her clothes in the dark. She hoped she hadn’t put any on backward or inside out and then thought who gives a shit? She tried to talk to Mickey but he ignored her. She knew he was alive because she could hear him breathing beside her. He had curled into a ball on the small mattress beside her. She had felt him move around and heard the soft sounds of cloth and she thought he must have put on some clothes. Later in their dark cave, Claire brushed against him when she turned. Under her hand, she noticed Mickey had put on pants but not his shirt. Weird. But then it was very warm in here. Clothes were protection though weren’t they? Basic protection against the elements. Had Mickey given up completely? Claire spoke to him, trying to draw him out by asking if he was hurt or needed help. He whimpered, moaned and moved his position now and again on the mattress but he wouldn’t talk to her. What did they do to him to make him give up like that? He had been hurt. She had seen him and he looked hurt, but they hurt her too. Orifices burned, bruises blossomed, cuts bled and the way they had bent her stretched and tore her muscles. It wasn’t enough to make her give up. She wanted Mickey to talk to her so they could develop a plan together. Figure some way out of this mess. If they didn’t get out of here on their own, she knew it wouldn’t end well for them. She pictured being dumped in a shallow grave on top of Mickey with the leader shoveling dirt onto their open lifeless eyes and tangled and bruised limbs. She saw him smiling down at them with a blue, uncaring sky over his shoulder teasing them with a promise of freedom they’d never have. She shivered. A blood clot from her nose fell into the back of her throat. She reached out, found Mickey sweating beside her and she spat the clumpy mess away from him. She was on her own. That might have scared another person, but Claire had been on her own since the night her stepfather crept into her room and slid his hand up her thigh. She knew the one person she could depend on was herself. She remembered the door to this hidden room opened outwards. When they came for them, they would have to pull the door open towards themselves. Why did she remember that? How could she use that? Considering her options lying on a flimsy mattress in a midnight room, Claire dozed off.

Claire woke to laughing and was confused. When she opened her eyes and couldn’t see anything, a fear of being blind caused a hitch in her breath and when she felt a warm body beside her, the beginnings of a scream crawled up her throat. The laughter outside the room pinched it off. She remembered. She sat up, straining her ears for more information and her body shouted at her for moving so abruptly. Claire’s mouth opened in the darkness, refusing to yell or cry out while every torn and bruised muscle lit up her pain receptors. When the ocean-sized waves of pain were reduced to a trickling river, she scooted closer to the door knowing if she let them take her out of here, if she willingly gave in, she wouldn’t see tomorrow. The image of the grave wasn’t just a vision. It was a premonition. It would happen if she didn’t fight and gave up like Mickey behind her. She didn’t have a weapon or any real plan to stop herself being dragged out of this room, she just knew she couldn’t quit. When the laughter died off and silence followed, Claire exhaled and felt the tenseness leave her. She listened. She heard footsteps on steps, heading away. No! Not away! A cry escaped her and her body shook all over with a sudden, violent jerk. Mickey farted behind her and she almost laughed until she heard whistling from beyond her room. She moved closer to the door as the tune grew louder. She sat on her butt with her hands on the floor beside her hips and pulling her knees into her chest, she waited. The whistling stopped. She heard the door click like it did when the man pushed on it yesterday to release the lock. A sliver of light outlined the door. Grimacing her teeth, she yelled and shot her feet out. Her heels hit the door with a satisfying slap and the door flung open. A man yelled. She heard a crack and Claire darted out of the hidden room. Blinking against the sudden brightness, she leaped over the man now sprawled on the floor and she raced for the stairs. She didn’t see who the door had hit and she didn’t care. She was happy he had come alone and didn’t have to fight anyone. Her bare feet slapped on the wooden stairs. She pushed open the door at the top thinking how arrogant these men were to not put a lock on the door, so sure were they in their victim’s complete helplessness. Claire was grateful for it and grateful too for her shoes to be still sitting on the mat by the door where she had left them. When was that? Yesterday? Seemed so long ago now. She ran for the front door, leaned down, snagged her shoes and pushed open the screen door to the outside world, heard a “Hey! What the fuck!” and ran into the woods.

Before Claire had left home after telling her mother what her stepfather was doing and her mother somehow blaming Claire for being too pretty and wearing slutty clothes, Claire had been a runner. She had been in grade ten at the time and her phys-ed teacher noticed Claire had natural talent in the running department and actively recruited Claire for the track team. Claire had never been told she was good at anything and having a professional person, a teacher telling her she could maybe get a scholarship to a nice school if she worked at it saw an escape from her shitty town and her shitty life. So Claire worked at it. And she really liked it. It got so she not just liked it, she kind of loved it. There was more to it than throwing on a pair of shoes and running. There was technique involved. There was self-discipline. There was self-respect. Her coach told her to watch the really good long distance runners and try to pick out for herself why they were so good. Try to understand why they could run so fast for so long. Claire noticed it right away. A lot of runners kind of bounce up and down when they run. That was inefficient. You want to move forward. Your head should remain level at all times. No wasted energy. Your forefeet should propel you forward. The good ones kind of float, as though their feet never touched the ground. They made it look effortless and Claire did her best to emulate these women who, to her, had no give in them and were made of sterner stuff than most people as though they had been carved from granite and brought to life. And before the demise of her home security, Claire had been getting better. She had been getting so good her coach had told Claire the Toronto university was calling about her, wanting to know her times for certain distances.

The point was, Claire knew once she got into the woods and put some distance between her and the assholes who nabbed her, she had a chance. A good chance. When she couldn’t hear anyone crashing through the leaves behind her, she paused and squatting low to the ground with her hand on the rough bark of a tree, she listened. Nothing. She had time. Claire put on her shoes and continued running with her forearms up to keep the branches from scratching her face. She didn’t know where she was going and at this point, so early in her escape, she wasn’t too concerned. It took her some time to find her running rhythm. She hadn’t run for years and she had to work at getting her breathing right and keeping her feet light while avoiding tree roots, animal burrows and anything that might injure her and slow her down. She continued in this way for some time until she felt safe enough to take a breather and assess her situation. She listened for pursuers and listened for the sound of cars passing on a roadway. Nothing. She spun in a circle hoping to find smoke from a chimney or the roof of a cabin but only saw more trees and more dirt. Where the fuck had these guys taken her?

Claire glanced up at the sky. Through the dense leaves above she saw blue sky. She noticed the sun further along in the sky moving towards the horizon, wherever the hell that was. How long had she been asleep? She knew they had stayed up long into the night and maybe into the early morning. It could be late afternoon or early evening by now. She didn’t want to be out here in the dark, wandering. Noises mean more in the night. A cracking branch could mean someone with a heavy boot was getting closer, reaching for you to take you back to the basement. Claire knew if she ever went back there, she wouldn’t be leaving alive. The heat of the day and the constant running had turned her mouth dry. She needed water and she needed food. She needed to get the fuck out of these woods! She clenched her teeth and thought if she moved in a straight line, she’d have to hit something, wouldn’t she? A road? A house? A fucking Wal-Mart since they were everywhere? How could she tell if she was moving in a straight line?