Thrall

I stepped into the elevator and let out a breath in sync with the doors closing behind me. I gritted my teeth, my jaw clenching. I knew this wasn’t a part of the plan, the perfectly pliant plan they’d said. I leaned against the railing, my mind whirling with possibilities of escape. My body tingled with residual adrenaline. My eyes wandered over the confinement, measuring up my current puzzle. I could escape out over the top, climb the greasy wires, again. I shuddered. My gaze found the blood dripping off of the machete clasped in my hand. It’s deadly sharp curve smirking up at me evilly. I smiled back, running my fingers along the edge, fingers moving on to cradle the blade. The metal box rattled to a stop. I scoffed again, my claustrophobia sheepishly peeking its head.

I glanced up again. I couldn’t climb out, not with two bullets in me. The plan had said stairs or roof, not elevator, so much for pliant. I heard footsteps and hushed voices right outside the dingy doors. Trapped, they thought I was trapped. I steadied my hands on my sweet machete. They were going to walk in here, where I didn’t have much space to move, and they didn’t have much space to shoot. Machete over guns, I thought as the crack between the doors widened.

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