Twisted (26 page)

CHAPTER 39

“A
idan!” I try to shout, but panic grips my throat and allows no sound. My eyes ricochet around the room. There's got to be a way out of here. If Aidan thinks I'm just going to sit here and let him torch me alive, he can rot in hell. I scramble to my feet and tear to the window. It's dark outside. There are no lights on in the house next door, and their driveway isn't shovelled. They must be away. I try the window again, prying with my fingernails until they snap off and become smeared with blood. The window doesn't budge.

I run across the room, press my ear to the door, and listen — nothing.

I mash my nose against the door jamb and sniff — nothing.

Rushing back to the window, I yank off my hoodie and twist it around my hand. I hold on to the ledge for support and crash my wrapped fist against the glass. The shock of impact shoots up my arm, filling my eyes with water. I pound on the window over and over, but the panes are too small and I mostly come into contact with the wood. I have to give up because it hurts too much.

Again I return to the door to check for sounds and smells. This time I smell it — smoke.

Shit.
“Aidan!” I kick the door because my hands are so sore. “Don't do this!”

He doesn't answer. I'm not even sure if he's still there. Then I hear a
beep, beep, beep
. The smoke detector. My heart does a little jump. Is it loud enough that someone might hear it? Especially if it keeps going off? Just as I finish my thought, there's a clatter and the beeping stops. Aidan must still be out there.

“Aidan,” I plead softly. “Please,
please
, don't do this.” Waiting for him to respond, I notice the air in the room. I can see it. I can fan my fingers through it. There's a haze. I glance down at my feet. Little wisps of white are coming in under the door, drifting and whirling along the floor then floating up.

Jesus Christ
. Ignoring the pain, I slap my hands on the door. They leave behind bloody prints. My fingernails are still bleeding. “Aidan! Let me out!” I grab the doorknob and tug and tug. My arms feel like they're going to pop out of their sockets. I scream his name until I'm hoarse. Nothing. I slide down the door to the floor and hug my knees to my chest.
Shit.

The white curls of smoke working their way in are getting thicker. I push down the fear because I need to be able to think straight. I remember the rug by the window, the one Bingley spends most of his time on. I get to my feet, scoop it up, roll it tight, and jam it under the door. “There,” I breathe. “That's something.”

I survey the room for the hundredth time. My eyes swing back and forth between the window and the door. One of them is my way out. Because I'm getting out of here. There's no other option.

And then I notice the lamp base partially sticking out from under the bed. I grab it and race back to the window. Holding it with both hands, I aim the metal socket at the glass and start pounding. It's less clumsy than my fist, and I can feel it, hear it, hitting dead centre. The window still doesn't break, but I don't give up. My breathing becomes laboured, and I finally have to stop for a second. I tell myself it's just from exertion, but glancing behind me, I see the smoke. It's changing, getting denser. It's leaking in around the rug, through the seams of the door, and filling the room.

I set down the lamp, hurry to the door, and tuck the rug in tighter. My eyes sting, and I blink furiously to clear my vision. I can feel heat through the wood, and I can hear noises on the other side, like leaves rustling in the wind, but I know that's not what it is. And whatever the rug is made of, it's creating its own smoke that's black and smells terrible. It's in my mouth — I can taste it.

Staying close to the floor, I crawl over to the bed and pull off the quilt. My plan is to switch it with the rug. I yank out the rug and, using my heels, stuff the quilt into the opening under the door. Then without thinking, I reach for the doorknob to haul myself up. I yelp and jerk my hand back. There's a red blotch burned onto my palm.

Fuck.
Tears dribble down my cheeks as I cradle my hand to my chest to ease the pain. It doesn't work.

The heat from the door is so intense, I have to move away. On my knees and one good hand, I head back to the window. My discarded hoodie is in my path, and I pick it up and drape it over my head. The smoke still manages to find its way underneath. I start coughing, so I hold part of the sleeve snug against my mouth. But then I have to breathe through my nose, which is too clogged up. I toss the hoodie aside.

Defeated, I lean against the wall, feeling my chest heave up and down. All that bullshit I kept telling myself about Aidan not getting away with it, about me getting out of here, that's all it was — bullshit.

The air is heavy and thick. I let the last bit of energy drain out and lay myself flat on the floor. This is the way they'll find me. My throat burns, and my eyes feel like they're on fire. I close them — close them against the smoke, and to block out what's around me. But that doesn't block the sounds. I hear the crackling and snapping of the flames, the creaking of the house. I try to imagine where the fire is, how close, the flames licking up the walls, everything that's happening on the other side of the door. There's a whistling and then a pop, like when I broke the light bulb.

I'm so hot. It's becoming almost impossible to breathe. I roll over on my side so my lungs aren't so squished.

This is it. No one's coming.

Was it like this for Aidan's mom? What was her name? I can't even remember.

Then I think about Mom and when she died. Did she feel it? Did she know when she went to sleep that night that she wouldn't wake up?

I feel it. I know I'm not waking up.

Shouldn't my life be flashing before my eyes? Maybe that comes later, in those seconds right before the end.

Please let me die from the smoke before the fire gets me. The thought of my skin sizzling, bubbling, and melting off my bones … I start coughing again, dry hacks. I have to sit up to stop from choking.

From out of nowhere Bingley lands on my lap, meowing, nuzzling his head under my chin. I totally forgot about him. How is he still up and about? He seems to be his usual indifferent self. He leaps from my lap and walks a circle around the lamp base that's still on the floor where I left it. I watch him. His meowing is louder. I know it doesn't mean anything, that it's only coincidence, but something makes me get to my feet and reach for the lamp.

Once again I grasp the base tightly. It slips and slides because the burns on my hand are weeping liquid, but it's my stronger hand and that's what matters now. I don't feel the pain anymore anyway. This time I drive the bottom of the lamp into the glass as hard as I can. The window splinters into a starburst. I cry out with joy and strike one more time. I hear the tinkle of glass hitting the floor.

The outside acts like a giant vacuum, and for a second I'm mesmerized, staring at the smoke as it's drawn out the hole. I clean away more of the shards and hold my face to the opening, oblivious to the jagged edges digging into my forehead and chin. I suck in the fresh air. My head doesn't fit through, but it's okay. Right now, the cold night air is all I need — an injection of adrenaline.

I yell, “Help!” but my mouth is dry, as if coated in chalk. All I can manage is a bark. I back up and stick my arm through the hole. I get it out up to my shoulder. Miraculously, the nail keeping the window shut is within my reach. I try jiggling and twisting it, but it doesn't take me long to figure out it's in there way too deep.

Next, I wave and wave, whipping my arm around like a propeller. Maybe someone walking by will see. I grab my hoodie, stuff it out. Flap it like a flag. Minutes pass, and my arm turns to rubber. I have to pull it in.

To create some saliva, I run my tongue around my teeth and gums. Once again I stick my face against the frame of broken glass and scream for help. This time sound comes out. I scream at the top of my lungs. All of a sudden I feel arms around my waist, lifting me up and away from the window.

Someone finally saw me! Heard me!
I'm rescued!

Before I have a chance to turn my head to identify my saviour, a hand is slapped over my mouth and my bruised and battered ribs are squeezed so tight, I can't draw in a breath.

And I know. It's no saviour. It's Aidan.

He's got me mashed against his chest. I thrash and squirm, try to slip through his arms. It only makes him grip me tighter. I try to pull away the hand covering my mouth. I can't get any leverage because it's gloved or wrapped in something. I try biting, but I can't get my teeth through. I have to keep at it. His hand is blocking my nose and barely any air is getting in. It feels like forever since I've taken a breath.

I reach up behind me, feel for his face. He can't control my arms without letting me go. I dig whatever's left of my nails into his cheek, hoping to make contact with his fresh wound, and drag them over his jawline and down his neck. I feel his flesh tearing, so I must be doing some damage.

“Bitch!” he yells, and his hold loosens.

Wrenching myself out of his arms, I think I'm free, but then I'm instantly snapped back. He's got a handful of my hair. My scalp stings, so do my eyes. He pulls me close, still holding my hair. Then he smacks me across the face with the back of his hand. It knocks me to the floor. On my way down, my knee catches the corner of the bed frame and I hear a crack.

I lie there on my stomach, waiting for the splashes of light to clear from my vision. There's a metallic taste in my mouth. I know it's blood. All at once, something heavy covers me. It takes me a second to realize it's Aidan. He's laid his body on top of mine.

“Shhh,” he whispers into my hair. “I forgive you.”

It's so hot, I'm soaked. My clothes are plastered to me. The thought of his sweat mixing with mine — it makes me want to throw up. But
if I did, I'd probably drown in my own vomit, because his chin is rest- ing in the nape of my neck, pressing one side of my face to the floor. The pressure of him on my back … I can't inhale. “Is this what you really want?” I ask, my words muffled. “For me to die like your mom?”

“Shhh,” he whispers again. “Don't talk about her.”

“Did Vince know? Did he know what you did?” My mouth is filled with blood and God knows what else. I can barely talk, but I have to know.

He ignores my question. “It's okay, Lyss. Don't fight it. It's hap- pening. We're going to be together forever.”

I buck my body, try and flip him off, but he weighs too much. He has me completely pinned.

“Just close your eyes and relax,” he says.

“Like hell.” I flail my arms out sideways, curving them around behind me, hoping to claw his back, but all I get is his jeans.

There's a crashing sound from the hall, something smashing to the floor. It reminds me that the door is open, and it's only a matter of time before the fire finds its way into this room.

I start to whimper, my body trembling beneath his. “Aidan, please.”

He strokes my hair. “Don't cry, Lyssa.”

“Don't cry?” The fact that he's trying to comfort me suddenly fills me with rage. But there's no way to let it out, no way to scream. I'm talking to the floor. “Why can't I cry? What difference does it make?”

“It breaks my heart.”

“Like I give a fuck about your heart.” I shouldn't have said that.

He goes quiet. I worry about what's going through his mind.

With my one exposed eye, I see Bingley under the bed. He meows, blurs in and out of focus as the smoke drifts by. I mouth the word
shoo
and hope that for once he obeys me.

“It didn't have to be like this,” he finally says. I feel his lips moving against my ear. “Why couldn't you have just been happy with me?”

“Because you're a fucking psycho!” I can't seem to stop myself.

“Hey!” Again he grabs a handful of my hair, then lifts my head and smashes it back onto the floor. “That's not very nice.”

Pain explodes through my cheekbone. “Bastard!”

“Watch your mouth,” he scolds and nestles his head next to mine so our cheeks are touching. I don't fight back. I know I have to con- serve my energy. I'm not sure I'd be able to anyway.

As a result of the head slam, my line of sight has changed. Under the haze of smoke, I'm now able to see out the bedroom door. Flames. In spite of the heat, I shiver. Even if I could get away, would I be able to survive what's out there?

Guess I won't know until I try.

I make my body limp and slow my breathing to almost nothing. Maybe he'll think I've passed out. Maybe he'll think I'm dead.

I wait. But it's torture. It's already hard enough to breathe without actually trying not to.