Bound to Her - Deborah Pin (books for 9th graders .TXT) 📗

transportation, she’d likely still be on Mercer Island. She hopped the stairs two at a time and

pulled the door open to the fourth-floor building entrance door. It would

spit her right into the back end of a deserted hallway, and a quick route

to her classroom.

She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d gotten hung up on as she passed

through the door to the corridor. All she knew was she was snagged and

powerless to move forward. She had her tote bag and laptop bag over her shoulder and they both caught on something.

Hindsight being an unfair bitch, she realized just a bit too late that she

should have kept going. Perhaps had she abandoned her bags that were

pulling her back, she could have made it to safety. But not realizing the

hang-up was a lunatic’s strong hands grabbing her bags and yanking her

back into the stairwell, she was unaware of the danger that lurked behind her until it was too late.

She wheeled around to free her bag and the moment she did a hand reached from within the stairwell to grab and twist in the hair at the top

of her head, dragging her painfully back into the stairwell. She knew she

was fucked the instant she caught sight of the hand darting toward her

head but no amount of pulling, fighting and bracing herself against the

doorframe could stop his strength from overpowering her.

She heard the heavy door’s latch click behind her and her heart sank.

This was going to be bad. This was very likely going to kill her, and all

for what? Because she’d been stupid enough to value her time over her

safety. She stood frozen facing the man. He was wearing another black ski mask and his light-colored eyes glared at her. He’d released the hold

he had on her hair and he was simply standing in front of her, his hands

raised as if daring her to try to skirt past him.

He was blocking the stairs that led down a level and though she was

closer to the stairs leading up, she could see it playing out in her mind even as she willed her feet to move. She knew he’d catch her. She had no

idea why or how she knew, but as she darted up the stairs and his hand

grasped the back of her ankle there wasn’t an ounce of surprise. She collapsed to the stairs, banging her knee hard on the edge of one of the

stairs and crying out.

Her yelp echoed through the vacant vertical shaft of the stairwell and

it was the most depressing sound she’d ever heard. It was her

nightmares come true, it was her end, it was everything she’d dreaded but had been too stupid to avoid.

It was over for her and she knew it. He’d managed to get her bags off

her shoulder and had abandoned them on the floor of the landing and as

she scrambled to crawl hand over knee up the stairs, he caught her by the

collar of the fitted casual blazer she wore.

She let her arms go slack behind her, allowing the jacket to be pulled

free of her arms, rather than letting him pull her over backward down the stairs, but even freeing herself from him for a brief moment wasn’t enough.

He lunged again with a growl emanating from his throat. She’d not even made it halfway up the flight of stairs when he latched onto her hair, yanking her swiftly backward.

She grabbed desperately for the stair railing to keep herself from

being thrown backward. She latched onto it, listening to her hands skid and slide along the painted metal of the railing. She couldn’t get enough

purchase to stop her backward momentum but she wasn’t falling. It was

an awkward drag as he yanked on her hair and she sank back and down

to the stair below her. It twisted her knee in the process and she cried out again, wanting to keep her damn mouth shut.

She should be screeching but she was terrified it would piss him off

more. She was dragged down the steps, her flimsy camisole pulling up and her lower back scraping across the sandpapery safety paint coating

the edges of the steps, intended to keep people from slipping.

The burning on her skin as her lower back grated across the four steps

was painful but it was oddly grounding in some sense. She was

whimpering and begging pathetically by the time he released her hair.

Her pleas were echoing up and down the stairwell just as her cries had

and she started crying as much from sheer sadness as fear.

She staggered to her feet, unable to stop the tears that were dropping.

He stood back and watched. She guessed he was amused, given the way

he subtly cocked his head to the side and watched her calmly. The calm

didn’t last. The moment she was on her feet, he took a swift step toward

her, punched her square in the gut and threw her body into the wall behind her. She collided with the rough cinder block wall and as she gasped and desperately tried to suck in air, she slid down the wall. The

bricks scraped harshly against the naked skin of her shoulder as she slid

and when her butt hit the ground she started retching.

She was still trying to get her lungs to work and her stomach was clenching and trying to empty itself from the fist he’d jammed up under

her ribs. When he knelt down in front of her as she kept fighting to suck

in air, it was to grab the hair along her forehead and pull her head up to

look into his cold, evil eyes. “You can’t believe how much pain I can give

you.” His words were hissed through gritted teeth. She was holding his

eyes, unable in fact to look away.

His hand found her neck and he gripped, pushing her neck back to the wall and cutting off her airway as she clawed desperately at his wrist.

His free hand moved to the low-fitting neckline of the camisole and though she couldn’t see what he was doing, she could feel as the fabric

was yanked down below her breast.

The cool air tickled her exposed skin and then it was pain. Blinding and agonizing pain was shooting through her chest, radiating out from her breasts. She could feel warmth dripping from her skin and even as her mind started to go fuzzy and her ears started to buzz loudly, she knew she was bleeding. She could feel the pulsing beat of hypoxia in her

head but it didn’t dull the searing pain in her chest.

And then there was nothing.

* * * * *

She was suddenly awake and she was being dragged by the hair

again. The tingly pulse running through her head and out to her skin said she’d been unconscious and as she looked down she saw the blood

across her naked chest but she couldn’t determine the injury. He stopped

yanking her and she listened as he hesitantly pulled open the door to a

parking level. And then she was being dragged again. The moment she

was through the door she started fighting. She was finally in an open space and if she could just get free of him, she could run, she could hide,

she could scream for help.

She reached up and dug her nails into his wrist. He growled, stopped

moving and then smacked her hard across the face. But she was ready to

fight now and she started screeching, pulling from him, letting the hair rip out as she struggled to get away.

She managed it but he again caught her by the leg, sending her to the

ground. He started yanking her across the abrasive concrete by her ankles. Her camisole was a tattered mess that did nothing at all to protect

her skin at this point and she could feel her back rolling over small pebbles and grit from the dirty concrete as he dragged her.

But then she heard it. The sound of heaven. The sound of safety. The

sound of hope. At first the tires screeched slightly as they rounded one spiral turn after another. It was a long way off yet but the car was getting closer. If she could just get out from between the row he was dragging her through… She started kicking, she started clawing, catching her hand

on a tire for a moment before he yanked her past it but then she caught

on the side panel of the car. She reached under, feeling the metal lip, and

she clutched down hard. He tugged against her suddenly immovable

weight and he toppled back.

She rolled to her stomach and then up to her knees, sprinting out from between the cars. She could hear the sound of his fury in the growl

behind her and it sparked a terror in her gut that forced her legs to pump

harder and faster than she’d have thought possible.

She was not going to die today. Not this fucking day! She was crying,

she was screaming and she was running with the knowledge that her life

absolutely depended on it. And then it was there. Just a compact blue car. The young man behind the wheel looked startled, his eyes wide and

terrified at the sight of her.

Katrina didn’t waste even one second before she darted to his

passenger door, wrenched it open and slid in next to him. He sat there stunned as she locked the door.

“Drive!” She yelled at the poor man as though she was furious with

him for not knowing what to do.

He eventually managed to get his foot back on the gas pedal and she

collapsed against the back of the seat. He tried to stop once, asking if he

should call the cops. She screeched at him to drive and wouldn’t let him

stop until they were back out of the parking garage. He pulled over haphazardly, blocking an alleyway, but the street was busy and she knew she was safe.

* * * * *

The next couple hours were a blur. There was an ambulance and there

were lights. She was lucid and completely conscious, but her brain just didn’t want to deal with it. So she closed her eyes and ignored all the sounds and voices. The hospital was no better. They took pictures and they patched her up.

The fuckwad had used her left breast as a carving board. The cuts were shallow and didn’t require stiches—a good amount of liquid

adhesive and a number of butterfly bandages did the trick. Her back was

sore, her upper stomach felt bruised where he’d punched her and her body just ached—but she’d be damned if she wasn’t alive. She shouldn’t

be alive.

Detective Smith and Terrell arrived. They had countless questions but

she struggled to pay attention. She recounted the story as best she could

and they eventually shut up. The photographer—the same blonde from

her first trip here—took pictures of her naked chest, her back, her stomach. And eventually a social worker came in and asked if she

wanted to talk. Fuck no she didn’t want to talk and she’d like nothing better than to stuff a rag down the social worker’s throat to get her to shut up too.

“Do you have anyone we can call for you?”

Dillon. “No.” She muttered the word as tears filled her eyes. “I just want to go home. Can someone just take me home?”

The social worker excused herself and shortly after Smith and Terrell

returned. Terrell offered his arm as she stood. Her body was sore and she

was tired but against all odds she had somehow managed to survive this.

But how many attacks would it take before Mr. Psycho Pants would

succeed? She might just be a bit fucked.

She collapsed on Imogen’s sofa as soon as the detectives finally left.

They scoured the house and the property before they’d leave with the promise that a patrol car would be circling the block. She was almost too

exhausted to be scared. Almost. But as she looked around Imogen’s large

open living room and listened to the silence surrounding her, her pulse

quickened and the terror set in.

She lay on the couch, trembling and fighting the panic for some time,

when there was a knock on the door. When she peeked through the

peephole, she started sobbing and yanked the door open. He scooped her

up in his arms, closing