He Left the Door Open

She didn’t give herself time to contemplate. He left the door open. She took the opportunity; one she’d never glimpsed in her three years here.

Laura Chaplain re-emerged into the world a distant parody of who she’d been thirty-five months and seventeen day ago. Her once athletic legs trembled as she bounded out into the sunlight, eyes stinging and streaming. The effort clutched her ribs to her lungs. Her once cool composure fractured into a rictus of terror, as he roared his outrage from the open doorway.

He’d catch her. Laura kept running though. Yes, he’d catch her, but she’d keep going. She forced her withered muscles into a sprint, almost tripping as she stampeded through his garden.

His car sat at the end of the driveway. It took her a breathless eternity to reach it, but the lights flashed as she clawed at the door handles. She swung around to see him striding out from the house, car keys in one hand, phone in the other.

“Laura!”

She shrank against the car, the metal singing her hands. He’d drag her back inside and hurt her worse than ever for this. No! She had to keep running.

Yet she was paralysed, as he continued his deliberate pace, advancing on her as inexorably as death.

Part of her wanted to fall to the grass and beg forgiveness. A moment of insanity – he’d left the door open and curiosity had overwhelmed her.

No!

Laura pushed away from his car, her nails gouging the paint. He roared her name again. She didn’t turn back, throwing her legs forward in an inelegant sprint. She didn’t turn back, because she knew he’d catch her, and she’d rather preserve her fantasy of escape a little longer.

Laura vaulted over the fence at the end of his garden. She landed hard on her back, but hauled herself up quickly. The cul-de-sac she stumbled into seemed vaster than the Sahara after her years kept in that claustrophobia-inducing cellar.

“Laura, get back here!” yelled Micky. Micky Dixon - the man who’d kept her from the world for three years.

The cul-de-sac was deserted, most of the families probably away to enjoy the sunshine. Laura’s mind sped through everything Micky had told her about the outside world while she’d cowered in his cellar.

“It’s all going to hell out there, sugar pie,” he’d crooned. “Oh, you should feel so lucky to be down here where you don’t have to worry about anything.”

Worry had been the least of her responses to Micky’s attention. He’d been a cruel man, under the façade of a charmer he wore so unconvincingly around her when he seemed to believe they were husband and wife.

“Riots in the streets,” he’d said, shaking his head, and forcing food into her mouth. “The army’s been called in, but it’s civil war out there. Most people’re getting out the city while they can. Not me though, sugar pie. We got a good place here, and I ain’t letting no one take it.”

The world looked much to Laura as it had the day she’d been taken. She shuddered at the vivid memory. Veering aside, she trampled through a neighbouring garden, brushing through the branches of a wilted pear tree, swiping at the shrunken fruit.

A van was parked in their drive. She pelted up the porch, and hammered at the door.

Glancing aside, she saw Micky reach the end of his drive. He broke into an unhurried jog, but it was enough to send her running from the door. They probably wouldn’t have answered anyway.

“And don’t you even think of going to the police, Laura,” he’d said, smoking a cheap cigarette after one of his outbursts. “Trust me, sugar pie, the ones I ain’t friends with are the ones who’ll leave you in some ditch somewhere.”

Laura wiped at her eyes as the cul-de-sac blurred. Over her thundered heartbeat, the crack of Micky’s shoes on the asphalt was like an avalanche getting closer. She didn’t look back, hurrying toward the drone of traffic.

Just get out of this town. Things would be all right then. The police would help. Unless things really had gone to hell like Mickey had told her. He’d claimed the last president had been assassinated, and a puppet council had been established to divide America up between its members.

It all sounded so farfetched. But Micky had come home complaining every day. Some days, he’d raged at changes being made, and his treatment had been rougher and more painful than usual on those days. Yet, he’d still gone to work every day, or he’d claimed to. She’d never had the courage to question his stories though.

Laura spotted an old car left to rust on the sidewalk by the last house in the cul-de-sac. A trio of lanky teens sat nearby, laughing among each other. They stopped laughing as she hobbled over. By their faces, she knew she looked worse than she’d feared.

“Help,” she said.

The three boys glanced behind her. She saw their uncertainty when they spotted Micky. Micky was a big man, with powerful arms bulging out and a face that transformed into a monster’s when he was angry.

Laura rushed past them to the rusting car. She smashed an elbow through the window, suffering cuts with a faint buzz of pain. She’d hurt a lot worse.

“Hey, man, what the hell-”

Laura ripped the door open, throwing herself into the driver’s seat. Behind her, she heard punches thrown. When she dared to look, one of the teens lay sprawled on the ground. The other two were backing away from Micky, who had bloody knuckles.

Laura wrenched open the glove compartment, throwing aside old receipts and a can of de-icer. Panic drowning coherent thought, she ripped up the mat under her feet. A set of keys rolled out.

“Thank God, thank God, thankGodthankGod...” Laura plunged the key into the ignition.

Micky’s hairy arm snaked through the smashed window. His fingers closed on Laura’s neck. She squealed, twisting the key. The engine spluttered. She really was going to die here.

She stomped the clutch and twisted again. Micky leant through the window, features contorted with rage. Her brain pulsed with a demand for oxygen as he squeezed her throat. The engine coughed to life, then growled.

Laura stamped on the accelerator. Micky’s hand slackened as she rolled off the grass onto the road. The car juddered and made noises as if it would fall apart, but Laura pressed the accelerator further. With a shriek, the car raced from the mouth of the cul-de-sac. Micky’s hand came away. She turned to see him tumble onto the road.

Kill him!

Laura’s hand hovered over the gear stick. She could easily reverse back over him. But, no, he’d survive, and his friends in the police would send her back to him.

And freedom was so close.

Taking one last look at Micky in the mirrors, Laura Chaplain, missing and presumed dead for the past three years, put her foot to the accelerator, and sped away.

Several times, his warnings about how the world had changed almost convinced her to turn the car back. But returning to Micky was impossible now. She steeled herself and left him behind, only stopping to call the police once she’d left the town behind.

When she emerged from the phonebooth to see a police officer climbing out of his car, she almost fled. But then her sister stepped out, face blotchy with tears.

Unable to hold her own sobs back, Laura ran to embrace her. She was free.