Water (2 page)
They were, but I was not. My grip started to loosen as my tired muscles and numb fingers were unable to hold on against the rushing snow. I lost the stable trunk and returned to the tumble of snow.
I came to a halt just like the rest of the debris that used to be the Canadian mountainside. A small air pocket had formed, allowing me to spit out the coppery taste of blood. Suffocation couldn’t be too far off, encased as I was in an immobile block of ice. Feeble attempts at movement proved useless. Silence settled in on me as I heard the last of the snow come to a halt above me. I tolerated its crushing weight because I had no choice. I should have broken my habit of solitude and at let someone know of my vacation plans.
As the numbness slowly receded, pain returned to one hand. I wiggled my fingers. They were free, possibly above the surface. I grimaced.
Great – at least the wolves would find me
. Closed casket for me.
Where in the World
I sat up, gasping for breath. My lungs tried to hack up snow that wasn't there. The clear breath didn't stop me from hyperventilating. I was still buried. Flailing all four limbs, I clawed my way out from the white. Waves of pain starting in my head, then shooting down to my arms and legs threatened to engulf me. Sharp, painful jolts coursed through my body.
Sunlight hit me, bright and intense. I covered my eyes and my hand brought up a cotton sheet with it. I looked down and around me in confusion. Soft, cream-colored pillows and blankets surrounded me; a large comforter was halfway on the floor.
I should be dead.
What happened? Snowboarding, avalanche, free hand, a pull on my hand, blue sky…
It took a moment to settle in. The razor sharp teeth and vice-like jaws of wolves I had been expecting never came. Instead there was a firm but gentle pull from a warm hand.
Somebody saved me! But who? How?
In my usual inability to plan I had told no one of my trip.
Trying to recall the events further only managed to evoke foggy snatches of conversation. There were men talking about my injuries. A broken wrist, sprained ankle, bruised ribs. Other bits of medical terminology toyed with me.
Slowly turning my sore neck, I surveyed the room. It was strangely bare, save for the bed, and the porcelain sink in the corner. The only window was small, placed high up on one wall, flooding the room in brilliant rays of afternoon sun.
It didn't smell like a hospital. The air was fresh, almost tropical. The familiar
boops
and
beeps
of machines were absent; there was no low hum of conversations from nurses and doctors in the hallway. I knew those sounds well thanks to my unnatural knack for getting caught in the middle of disasters. This wasn’t a hospital.
I shifted, and pain shot up my arm. If my wrist was broken, they hadn’t bothered to cast it, or even brace it. Cradling it with the other arm would do for now.
I swung my feet over the side of the bed and forced myself to stand, slowly. Wavering slightly, I caught myself on the wall, and waited for my legs to steady themselves before hobbling to the sink.
Cold, metallic-tasting water poured from the faucet. I drank greedily, soothing my dry throat. The pain in my ribs, multiplied by the simple task of breathing seemed to lessen. Still, the bruised mass that was my body protested every small movement. Given that I had already marked myself for death on the mountainside, the pain was more welcome than not.
I slowly made my way across the room and tried the door handle. Locked. I turned around and fought back the inclination to panic. I could hardly recall a time in my life I had felt imprisoned. As a child I was happy to stay close to mom and dad, and whatever home we had at the time. Having very few personal relations and a flexible job as an adult, I was free to do what I wanted, when I wanted so long as the balance in my bank account held steady.
Suddenly, that freedom was no longer mine.
A thick lump began to form in my throat. Quickly, I recalled my mother’s meditation sessions.
No peeking, honey. Keep your eyes closed and your mind clear.
I imagined the smell of her sage, and after several deep breaths and a few moments of Zen, my nerves were calmed. Sufficiently satisfied I could think straight, I concentrated on my surroundings. The only window was out of my reach but fortunately placed directly above the sink. Amidst unsuccessful attempts to coddle my various breaks, bumps, and bruises, I limped back toward the sink. Waddling too close to the end of the bed, a clipboard clattered to the floor.
I picked it up, my ribs groaning in protest, and quickly scanned the pages of handwritten notes hastily scrawled across them.
Female subject #134, experimental phase. Survived initial encounter. Begin injection treatment; run blood tests.
That did it for me. No need to read the rest. Practically choking with fear, I dropped the clipboard and ran to the far wall. One painful hoist later, I was face to pane with the window. It was easily within reach, but I would have to break it in order to free myself. A single sheet of glass separated me from being able to return to my own life. Lonely though it was, my apartment was my sanctuary. As soon as I got back I would run a hot bath and soak away the cold and pain of the avalanche. I would concentrate on my job, find comfort in the familiarity of a photo shoot, and never, ever again take another vacation.
Placing my open palm on the glass brought back memories of childhood. It was warm from an afternoon of sun, just like the window in the backseat of our car. We would drop Dad off at work every day, my hands and face squashed against the window in an attempt at a funnier face than the previous day.
Have a good day, Katie. Be good for your mom
. He put his hand against the other side of the window in a final farewell. There was no hand on the other side of the glass now.
I tapped on the windowpane and the sound echoed around the empty room. It seemed sturdier than ideal. I'd never broken a window. I tested different stances and slow-motion strikes with my elbows and fists, debating what would be most effective on the wobbly basin. Deciding on a simple strike, I shifted so my back leg rested just inside the front of the sink. Common sense prevailed and I took off my shirt to wrap it around my knuckles. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and imagined myself punching through the glass.
Feeling adequately prepared, I reared my hand back and then toward the windowpane as fast as I could. My fist bounced back instantly. I lost balance. My forward foot, cleverly anchored underneath one of the handles, did me no good and I fell backward off the sink, bringing the handle with me. The hard landing sent more jolts of pain through me. Though on the verge of shock, my body made a quick recovery aided by the cold. I lay directly in the path of water erupting from a now broken pipe.
Shocked out of shock; that was a first, even for me. I lay in a topless, sopping sprawl on the floor, staring up at the still completely intact window. I cursed at it. The only thing I managed to accomplish was that I could now add throbbing knuckles, an aching tailbone, and a bruised ego to my list of various injuries. Now more determined than before, I climbed back up armed with the broken handle from the sink. The window was no match against my new tool, and I let out a small cry of triumph as it shattered.
Woe be to those that try to stop me! I do not play victim. I am not familiar with that role.
Five days after my parent’s funeral I had moved two states away, found work as an assistant to a local photographer, cajoled him into issuing me an advance, and was furniture shopping for my new apartment. I don’t do grief or self-pity.
The window was level to the ground outside and I was back to survey mode before I moved further. I was right about the tropical atmosphere. The heavily scented and thick leafy bushes in front of me told me as much. They were covered in rich, burgundy star-shaped blossoms with white ruffled edges. The sheer intensity of it gave me pause. What else would I encounter outside of the shelter of my cream-colored room? Two beetles with long horns protruding from their heads fought each other on a leaf of the bush. Caught up in their own struggle, they were oblivious to my own predicament.
Enough Kaitlyn, get a move on.
I pulled myself through, grabbing the shrubs as leverage. Freedom achieved, I belatedly realized I was bare from the waist up. I looked back at the room, debated for a moment, then finally re-entered through the obstacle of broken glass. A few cuts and several curse words later I was outside once again, fully clothed. The beetles disappeared into the depth of the bush, both living to fight another day.
Pressing into the shrubs against the wall for cover, I tried to orient myself, wondering where in the world I was. I was definitely a long way from Canada. A few yards of lush, dark green grass extended out from the bushes and then stopped at the wall of trees. The highest tree must have been at least a hundred feet tall. Broad, straight trunks supported a thick canopy of light green. The chaotic buzzing of insects and other wildlife filtered down from the top. Humidity weighed down the tropical breeze, but not enough to dampen a sweet fragrance in the air. I breathed it in, frowning at the smell that didn’t quite seem to be a spice, but something more of a tangy zest. I tried to place it. It was an odd cross between a southeastern Chinese beach and the orange groves I once photographed near Riverside, California. I’d moved around more often than a military brat as a child, and had a job that put me in sixteen different countries by the time I was twenty-five. Fat lot of good that did me; I still couldn’t place where I was now.
I looked at the building behind me. It was maybe three stories high, plus the basement, and long. Voices interrupted my examination. My head snapped toward them as I sucked in my stomach…as if that were going to hide me any better.
"Which room?" one very annoyed male asked.
Another man responded, "The white room. It was the only one ready."
"What? It wasn’t meant for keeping someone in, damn it!"
"Were any of the rooms?"
Voices of the arguing pair continued forward, diminishing with distance. I moved as quickly as my hurt ankle allowed, keeping to the space between the shrubs and the building. I risked a peek out to catch a glimpse of who I might be up against. The men were not wearing uniforms but had all the bells and whistles security guards might have – radios, handcuffs, mace, and guns. A new rush of adrenaline coursed through my veins.
I emerged from my hiding place and began to sprint. My footing was awkward at first but straightened out as I discovered how high my tolerance for pain really was. I navigated the building, hoping the grounds were not as expansive on the other side. Breathing heavily by the time I rounded the corner, I slowed down slightly to turn. Unfortunately, I wasn’t going slowly enough to avoid a head-on collision with another guard.
We both bounced back. Our feet did not follow the change of direction so well and we each landed on the ground. I jumped up while he stayed down, hugging his chest, right where my knee made contact. I resumed my sprint.
His wheezing voice carried after me, the walkie-talkie clicking. "She’s…in the … north yard."
I ran straight across the lawn, the mammoth property had to end eventually. Soon groves of flowering trees began to fill the yard, becoming thicker as I progressed. Just as I turned into them for better cover, several more men emerged, surrounding me.
I willed my body to stop. Panting, I looked between them, simply annoyed at this point. "You grow on trees around here?"
No one answered. Five big men stood around me, each waiting to see who would make the first move.
Hey, Yourself
Sideways glances pointed to the one in charge. They seemed to be waiting for his consent. One of them spoke up, "How do you want to proceed, Shawn?"
He looked at me, narrowing his eyes. "Detainment – by any means necessary."
Lovely
. He gave a slight nod, and two men stepped toward me, one on each side. I quickly sized them up. They were the smallest, but one was sporting a very ominous syringe. The arrogant prick didn’t even try to hide it.
Facing my opponents, I pulled my shoulders back. There was no hesitation even as I considered the odds. Despite all I had been through, despite the pain in my leg and wrist that was threatening to come back, I felt stronger, quicker, and very clear-headed. I brushed it off as an adrenaline rush. It felt great. So great, in fact, that I didn’t have the patience to sit back and play defense.
Taking the initiative, I turned to face the man with the syringe, fully aware the other one was coming up quickly behind me. My hand shot out to grab his wrist and I twisted until his grip on the syringe loosened. Not having to look, I leaned slightly to one side in order to avoid a blow the man behind me intended for my head. It was as if they were moving in slow motion – how generous of them. As luck would have it, his fist went straight through, making contact with the other assailant’s nose. A sickening crunch followed, and his blood splattered my face.
