Knife: Chapter 1

Chapter One


“I’m going to die.”
The terrified words screamed through Sara Wingate’s exhausted mind bringing her fully awake, the external stimuli further heightening her senses. An odor of alcohol, dark ugly words, and threats of her own death filtered through the barrage of images caught entangled in the lingering images of her dreams. Her labored breath came in short gasps fueled by apprehension and the dreading realization that the deeper more grating intake of air she heard was not her own! Someone else was in the room with her. Someone else was in bed with her.
Her heart slammed hard against her chest, tripping into a wild chaotic rhythm of terror, as her body’s own survival mechanism took control of her conscious rational thought.
She felt a massive hand damp with sweat clamp over her face. The skin was callous and rough against her smooth cheek. A fetid smell of motor oil and gas surrounded the heavy fingers, their weight suffocating as the stranger tightened each one abruptly across her lips and nose. Sara could not breathe. Swallowing convulsively, she felt the cold razor sharp edge of honed steel pressed against her throat.
“I’m going to die! I’m going to die!”
The same litany repeated in her terrified brain precluding any rational thought. She tried to inhale deeply but could not find the air to fill her tortured lungs. She became frantic, desperately trying to draw breath where there was none. Finally, the adrenaline began to surge through her body. The will to live overrode all other considerations.
“Fight or flight?”
She could feel his wet hissing breath, brushing intimately against her ear as he leaned closer, placing his lips to the side of her head. Filthy hair draped across her eyes obscuring her sight even further in the gloom of the room. Her world was growing dark. Sara shifted her eyes right then left in a frantic attempt to distinguish any feature of his face. His hand clasped harder against her lips as he commanded her, “Do not scream!”
“Fight!”
She gathered every ounce of strength, flaying her arms and legs in an attempt to dislodge the assailant from her chest. She twisted her torso first left, then right, then turning her legs one way while shifting her shoulders to the opposite. She finally sensed a lessening in the weight and felt the mass atop her begin leaning precariously to the left. Seizing the opportunity, Sara brought her right leg up and planting her foot almost to her back, she managed to lever her elbow under her and pushed with all her might.
The strangle hold on her face slacked and through the blinding haze of her fury, she struck at the side of the intruder’s head. Clutching a hand full of dank greasy dirty
hair in her grasp, she had gained the upper hand and taking advantage of the change in situation, inhaled deeply, drawing clear sweet air into her starved lungs. “Air!” her mind screamed.
Yanking hard on the handful of hair, she felt the knife blade slice into her neck. A thin trickle of warmth began to seep from the stinging wound and down her neck. Warm blood. Her blood. The man had cut her.
“Bitch!” The stranger yelled and thrust the knife down toward her, his arm arching high again above his head and slicing down, continuously searching. Feeling the slender body beneath his straining to rise, he pushed harder, allowing his massive weight to do most of the work. She was to have been a timid mouse, not a tiger.
It was then that he felt the woman’s long fingernails against his scalp, scoring four deep furrows from the crown of his head. Continuing across the front of his forehead, her fingers angled down across his eye with her assault not stopping until she had reached his large bulbous nose. He screamed in outrage knowing through the haze of pain that he was losing control of the situation and he was not a man to lose control. He shifted his weight higher across her chest, straddling her in an attempt to use his formidable bulk to subdue the hellion in his grasp as he grabbed one of her arms with his free hand. He plunged the knife repeatedly downward until he felt the satisfying, undeniable contact of metal cutting deep into flesh. He yanked the blade free knowing he had regained the upper hand.
Fire pierced through Sara’s shoulder as she felt the viscous moisture of her own blood flowing freely down her arm. He had stabbed her. She smashed her free hand against his
bearded face, struggling as his fingers frantically searched to contain her arm. She raked hard against his cheek a second time, trying relentlessly to locate his eyes. At the same time, she brought her knee up sharply and felt the satisfying whoosh of air as it left his body. She had managed to hit his most vulnerable area.
Taking advantage of the fact, she contorted her body abruptly to her left as he began to fall to the right. His hand flew up in an attempt to regain his balance allowing Sara to see the bright flash of moonlight off the blade. She grabbed his knife-wielding hand at the wrist using the momentum of their fall to force his arm downward toward his chest as both toppled over the edge of the bed to land unceremoniously in a heap on the floor. She was winded, but alive.
His frenzied shriek of pain bellowed loudly in her ears as the knife blade lodged deep in his chest. Feeling his grip loosen, she seized the carved wooden handle of the knife, pulling it up and away from her assailant. Without thought, she brought the heavy blade down aiming unerringly for the rasping uneven breath. Sharp honed steel met flesh and bone. The shock of the impact jarred her arm to the shoulder. Fire seared through her muscles making it impossible to retain her hold on the knife.
She released the weapon only to have the stranger reached up and snatched the knife from his chest throwing it, caring only that the weapon was out of the clutches of the wild woman. Sara heard it hit the hardwood floor and skitter away to her right. It was lost. She fell back against the edge of her four-poster bed. She was free. Kicking hard with her legs, she scrambled to her feet.
She stood poised to attack, her knees slightly bent and her arms stretched out in front of her. Wild eyes blind to the pain, searched the room for another weapon. Her focus lit on the familiar surroundings of her room, her mind racing on the possibilities she saw. Each object she saw was weighed and discarded in a split second until her eyes caught and held on the wooden box on her dresser. She took several quick steps toward her chest of drawers. Picking up the large carved jewelry box, she tested its weight in her hands. It felt solid. It felt comforting.
She clutched the box in front of her chest, her fingers wrapping around the edges as she raised it high above her head. She had another weapon and he would pay. Dearly.
He felt her slight weight lift from his body as her foot connected with the tender part of his anatomy for the second time. She was no tiger. She was a demon. He inhaled deeply only then understanding that the hiss of air he heard was the breath escaping his lungs through the knife wound in his chest. The pain was unbearable. Grabbing his side in an attempt to stop the flow of air and blood, he felt only a warm moistness as it bubbled through his thick inadequate fingers. The bitch had cut him badly. She would pay for her audacity.
He struggled clumsily to his feet leaning heavily against the wooden pole of her bed as he strained to catch his breath and find his balance. He blinked several times, shutting his dark eyes tight each time, trying to focus on the room. Finally, he saw a sliver of light cutting though a slit in her curtains. He had a landmark. He searched his mind. He had studied the lay out of her house for weeks, even breaking in while she was away at work; spending hours mapping out the rooms. He knew the house as well as the owner. If the window was to his left, then directly across would be the doorway and freedom. He took one step, then two, followed by more as he shuffled around the end of her bed as he tried to make his escape. His breath came in deep draughts, though he was beginning to feel lightheaded.
Feeling a sudden fan of air against his skin, he instinctively eluded her aim by crouching low to his right. The little hellion had a large wooden object in her hands and was raising it high again above her auburn head. Although she was much smaller, she would still be able to inflict an extreme amount of damage to him in his present condition if her aim was good on her next try. He staggered away from her, stepping toward the door and his escape. He could barely make out the movement of her hands as they began their downward swing. Reaching up, he grabbed her slender wrists before the object could make contact with his skull. As the breath hissed out of his chest from the strain of warding off the attack, he felt the satisfying crunch of shattered bones.
Sara felt her wrist encased in the attacker's powerful grasp, crying out as his fingers became tighter and tighter. The shattering of bone was followed by the slick warm moistness of blood.
Was it his blood? Or was it hers? Her mind shrieked.
He pushed hard using his considerable weight in place of his failing strength. She struggled but could not stop the backward momentum as she sprawled on the floor. Her jewelry box went soaring through the shadows to land in a shattered heap below the window. Her weapon lay in a worthless pile of splintered wood. She scrambled backwards away from the stranger until she felt the reassuring corner of the wall pressing into her back. Trembling she knew he could only come at her from one direction, and gathered strength from the knowledge.
She searched the room around her for another weapon until her blood filled eyes caught the glint of light from the steel of the knife. The weapon was only a step away. She hesitated between leaving the safety of the corner or shifting her position to retrieve the knife.
“Bitch, I’m going to kill you!” He lurched forward, focusing on the spot where she fell, watching triumphantly she vainly tried to escape. He laughed uproariously at her as she managed to back herself into a corner. Literally.
“You’re mine now, you demon whore and you are going to pay dearly for cutting Jones.” He took a step toward her, a malicious grin splayed across his face. “To hell with his plans. I’m going to hurt you, then I’m going to kill you.”
He reached behind his back, his hands wrapping around the familiar tooled handle of the revolver shoved into the waistband of his pants. “I should have just used this to start with.” He brought the gun into view even with his chest extending his arm until it was aimed at the trembling woman. He took a deep breath and gently squeezed the trigger between heartbeats.
Sara could hear his threats, but focused her entire attention on the knife. The weapon was only a step away and she could make it. Lunging toward the knife, she felt a searing pain rip through her left side as the air was knocked from her body. She did not see the gun held by the attacker, but had heard the violent explosion that filled the room too late. She had been shot.
Her hand fell across the wooden handle of the knife, and she instinctively tightened her fingers around the weapon. She brought her precious burden up protectively to her chest hiding the knife beneath her, lying as still as possible. She prayed he would leave, but knew he would not. He had promised to make her pay and he would keep his promise.
His shuffling steps grew closer and closer.
His rasping breath became louder and louder.
She stilled, holding her breath, trying to hold in check the screams of pain that caught in her throat. His hand brushed her arm causing her flesh to crawl.
“Ahhh, such soft skin, and I have to hurt you.” His hand trailed up her shoulder resting at her injured neck applying the slightest hint of pressure. “Maybe, you could be nicer to me.” His laughter ended in a fit of coughing. He slouched heavily against her, his chest heaving hard against her side. “But …I … guess, not this time…” He raised the gun to the side of her head cocking the trigger. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils.
The smell was sweet.
Revenge was always sweet smelling.
“A kiss sweet princess and I must say adieu.” He squatted lower to the floor, leaning toward her head as he placed a kiss on her immobile cheek. He paused; perhaps he had already killed her and his hesitation cost him.
He perceived the slight shift of her weight as she twisted her body sideways drawing her arm up toward him, a moment to late to respond. He felt metal tear into flesh and lost his grip on the revolver, feeling the comforting weight slip from his fingers. The sharp knife twisted deep in his guts, as his mind became a turmoil of shattered plans and even more life-shattering agony.
The torture was intense and pervaded his clouded thoughts to the point of insanity. He struck out with his fist, connecting over and over with the soft flesh of woman beneath him. He felt the unmistakable awareness of breaking bones and the act brought more satisfaction then sex with the hellion ever could.
Simultaneously, he felt the slice of metal into his body again and again. Through the haze in his mind, he knew each plunge went deeper and deeper and he groaned falling forward, as his body became a dead weight against her.
Sara continued to stab at the weight pushing against her, smothering her. She could not breathe and desperately wanted the feel of fresh air against her heated face. She needed to be away from the pain lancing through her body, away from the
source of her misery. The knife contacted with flesh repeatedly until becoming too heavy to hold, fell from her grasp. She had lost her only weapon. Straining against the weight covering her, she began to strike out. This time with her arms and fists. Suddenly she was free. The stifling bulk of his body lay to one side of her.
She struggled to her knees, unable to stand. Propping herself up on trembling hands, she grabbed the knife and crawled away. Pain lanced through her tortured wrists and a scream erupted from her throat, growing louder the closer she was to freedom. She slammed painfully against the doorjamb, falling to her side. She lay winded on the floor with blood pouring into her eyes blurring her vision. She brushed ineffectively, but could only manage to smear more blood and sweat into them. The same thought repeating itself in her muddled thoughts; she had to escape. Squeezing her eyes shut, she inhaled deeply to calm herself. She exhaled and managed to rise to her knees again and continued to crawl down the hall, her hands barely supporting her weight.
Her fingers met the soft material of the carpeting and she realized that she had reached her living room. Her breath came in short gasping inhalations, though they were not adequate to fill her lungs. Her thoughts became fuzzy, the lack of oxygen allowing the blackness of oblivion to fill her body. She compelled her body to continue its painstaking bid for freedom knowing that only a few feet to the left was the coffee table that held the telephone and a chance for assistance. She counted each time her hands pushed deeply into the softness of the carpet.
“Just one more handful” and she would reach the telephone. She continued to force her exhausted body forward. “One more handful. One more handful.”
She slammed into the carved wood of the coffee table, the pain a welcoming realization that she had reached her destination. Grabbing the edge of the table, she pulled herself up as the table tilted toward her. The contents slid down the tilted surface to plunge down around her. She released her grip remembering the heavy books she kept on the end, not wanting to be hit. There had to be another way to reach the telephone.
Exhausted, she lay against the carpet; the material was warm and wet beneath her cheek. She was bleeding, badly by the sickening feel in her stomach and the dampness beneath her face. Her battered body cried out in outrage and she closed her green eyes, seeking comfort in the obsidian darkness that had begun to seep into her bewildered thoughts. A few moments of rest were needed and she deluded herself into thinking that then she would be fine.
A faint hum broke through the haze of pain. Realizing it was the dial tone; she stretched her hand toward the sound until it connected with the cold plastic of the handle. She pulled it toward her, tucking it under her chest just as she had done with the knife, her fingers seeking the cord that connected the receiver to the main body of the telephone. She felt the weight of the phone sliding toward her and finally the feel of the buttons beneath her fingers. Levering herself up, she blinked hard against the blood in her eyes trying vainly to see the numbers. Failing, she placed her tired body back onto the carpet, allowing her fingers to see for her.
She visualized the number pad. The top row of buttons was the speed dial for her parents, her work, and her favorite restaurants. She moved one row down to the numbers - one, two, and three. She left her index ring finger on the number one as she stretched her small finger down one row further - six, then another row down to nine. She pressed the number nine, then the number one; once, then twice. Waiting for the ring, almost passing out in relief when she heard the calm disembodied voice on the other end.
“Emergency 911, how can I help you?” There was silence on the other end of the line. The dispatcher turned her head from the telephone. “Sarge, did the local elementary school teach 911 today? I’ve got a empty line.”
“Read them the riot act and then we’ll send a car out.”
Sara pulled the receiver up to her ear so she could hear more clearly. “Please…”
“Sarge, I think I can hear someone on the other end, breathing.”
“Which line?”
“Four.”
“911. State your emergency!” The gruff voice demanded.
“Please help me.” Sara did not hear the reply.