60 – …././.-../.–. (5)

She opened her eyes.

There was a tiny bit of light in the room now, and she’d been covered with a thin sheet. Her legs will still free, the gag was still gone, and some of the ache was gone from her arms.

She looked at her hands. At both of them. She blinked a few times, then a few more times as she tried to clear the fuzz from her mind.

Both hands were now tied to one bedpost. A single length of silk, cinched at both hands, was the only thing keeping her down.

Slowly. Carefully.

She eased herself up the bed, worming her way inch by inch towards the bedpost, creating enough slack in the silk to free her wrists.

Wrists free, she let her dead arms hang at her sides after she pulled the sheet up to her chin. She slowly sat, knees to her chest, resting against the headboard.

The room was nice. Fancy hotel nice. For the lack of smells, it could have been a hotel. She clutched the sheet tighter and sobbed into her knees for a moment. It could draw their attention, let them know she was free, but if they were that close, then momentary freedom didn’t matter. Freedom to move around within a cell wasn’t freedom, it was just the illusion of such.

Bed. Windows covered with thick, thick curtains. A dresser with nothing on the top. Not a very lived-in space. Very probably a hotel.

She carefully scanned the room. There was nothing obvious that could be used as a weapon.

A post-it note caught her attention.

A silk robe hung on the back of a door, a small yellow square with thick black writing on it.

She pushed herself to her feet, careful not to make the bed squeak, wrapped the sheet around herself and padded across the thick carpet to the door.

Hope cracked and her stomach sank. They knew she’d get free. The writing on the post-it said “Put me on”.

She looked back to the dishevelled bed and the stains on the sheets. She raised sore arms and took the robe from the small hook and wrapped it around her body.

She looked to the door handle, then backed away from the door. She padded back across to the windows, and pushed the curtains aside. Fairyland. Still in the capital. She pressed a hand to the glass too thick to break without something to help her, and maybe too thick to break even then. She angled her face. High up. Twenty or thirty stories, given how inconsistent the floors of fae buildings could be.

No one flew by. It was possible that fairies flew that high, but none did at the moment.

She looked to the dresser, and walked across to it, opening drawer after empty drawer. She removed two of the small drawer – they could at least be repurposed as bludgeons. Or-

She placed one of the drawers down, and ran a finger across the edge – dull, but it had a point, it would take time, but she could cut into-

She heard the door handle.

She grabbed both small drawers and turned to face the door, impromptu weapons at her side.

‘Hey newbie.’

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Posted in Book 05 - Oubliette 2.0
8 comments on “60 – …././.-../.–. (5)
  1. the leaking pen says:

    either curt is also a prisoner, possibly held by the agent he’s been fearing, or Clarke is sending another agent in to try the fake curt angle again.

  2. Anonymous says:

    You’ve been foreshadowing for ages – her blue-timer’s run out, and we’re into the withdrawal symptoms! (Please be right, please be right…)

  3. Anonymous says:

    It is neither a fake Curt nor the real Curt.

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