I spot one of my decorative vases that must have been what took the hit when crazy pants over there tossed the tape. I look around, seeing if any of the broken pieces made it my way.

There! About two feet from my leg is a piece that will be perfect. Now I just need to get to it. Checking to see how my new friend is, I notice that she’s now curled up next to my couch, rocking and slamming her fist against her head. Her other hand still holds the hammer tight, banging it over and over against the floor.

I move slowly, using my legs to inch closer and closer, only moving small inches at a time. I get where I can reach it as I sit on my ass, so I carefully and quietly as possible bring one of my legs out from under me, shifting on my ass to get my other leg out. My whole body is burning from the use of muscles I haven’t used in months.

When I get settled on my ass, I look over to make sure, once again, that she isn’t paying me any attention. My fingers reach out blindly, pushing the piece of glass a few times as I fumble around. I finally get my fingers around the sharp shard and begin the process of moving back onto my knees. I don’t want her to know that I’ve moved, but more importantly, I don’t want her to have any more of a height advantage if she comes to stand over me again. At least up on my knees, I have something going for me.

Once back on my knees, I make the painful shift back over to my original position. The whole time, I busy myself with moving the glass back and forth against my bindings. I want to scream in pain each time the sharp ends jam into my skin. Either my wrists or my fingers—hell, maybe both—are cut so badly that I’m struggling to hold on to the glass in my hands.

I can feel the tape give slightly at the same time that her head snaps up and she looks me in the eyes. “It’s all your fault, you fucking whore! You tempted him. Made him touch your body. IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!”

I keep sawing at the tape that binds my wrists and pray that I can get it loose before it’s too late. Her eyes are starting to look wild, and I know there isn’t much time. She heaves her large bag up and starts digging around. She brings up a few baggies of little white pills until she seems satisfied with the one she has. I can’t see how many pills the bag holds, looks like maybe three or four. She dumps them all in her hand and throws them into her mouth. After bringing a bottle of water out of her bag, she dumps it over her mouth, most of it falling around her mouth and running down her neck. By the time she appears to have had enough, she is soaking wet.

“I’ve been watching! I’m always watching!” she screams and starts to charge towards me.

The hammer in her hand comes up over her head. I watch with stark terror as the hammer gets higher and higher with each step she takes towards me.

“Drop it,” I hear from just over my shoulder. The voice strong. Commanding. And in total control. “Drop the fucking hammer now or, so help me God, I will shoot you,” the voice promises.

I make another sharp dig against the tape, opening my mouth wide in a silent scream. The last thing I want to do right now is remind this chick that I’m still in the room. I rip off the remaining tape, fumbling a few times because my hands are soaked with my blood.

“Drop it,” the voice reminds.

I keep my eyes focused on Sarah Jane and her hammer. I back up against the far wall and hold my arms over my stomach, praying that I’ll feel Zac start to move soon.

Sarah Jane goes to take another step and the sudden boom of a gunshot ringing out in the confined space has me screaming out. I curl into myself as much as my belly will allow.

“Don’t fucking move! This time I won’t be as nice and I’ll aim for something more important than your shoulder.”

“I’ve been watching. I’m always watching! You don’t know what this whore took from me!”

“And I don’t fucking care.” I shiver at the coldness that’s come over the voice to my side. “One more time—drop the hammer.”

“I’m going to bash you to pieces when I finish with the whore,” Sarah Jane promises.

I hear her snarl and what sounds like her feet shuffling forward. I close my eyes tight and brace for whatever happens next, making sure that my arms are still covering as much of my stomach as possible.

I scream when I hear another shot and start to cry uncontrollably. I scream and cry—beg and plead. It isn’t until minutes later, when I feel a small, warm hand lightly touch my shoulder, that I dare to look up.

When I see Emmy’s honey-colored eyes looking back into mine, I cry louder. She pulls me into her arms and lets me use her to be my strength since mine is gone.