Getting Out

I sat on the edge of my bed, the clock on the nightstand ticking toward eight o’clock. Just a few more hours before the grid would go dark in the Rust Belt.

"You’re a freak, Eloise! You hear me? A delusional, violent freak!"

The voice came through the thick door, muffled but sharp with hate. Isabelle. She hadn't gone to the hospital. She was still here, her voice nasal and wet from the blood and the bandages.

"You think you’re so much better than us because you played house with a mechanic?" she shrieked, followed by a series of curses.

"Look at my nose! You shattered it! I hope they kill all your friends, especially your boyfriend. I hope they torture him long before they kill him."

I didn't answer. I was on my knees, frantically searching my bedside table's drawers. My fingers brushed a small, cylindrical canister, a pepper spray my father had bought me.

Emergency use only, he had said. This was an emergency.

But pepper spray wouldn't get me through the door. I needed leverage.

I stood up and scanned the room. My eyes went to the corner of my walk-in closet. There, resting against the wall, was a heavy leather softball bat. It was a trophy from my high school days when I’d been the captain of the team, more interested in hitting things than being a debutante. It was weighted, solid, and capable of a hell of a lot more than hitting home runs.

I gripped the handle, feeling the weight. Now, I just needed Isabelle to open the door.

"Isabelle," I called out.

"Are you still out there, or have you gone to find a plastic surgeon who can fix that disaster you call your face?"

The pacing stopped. I heard her sharp intake of breath.

"You think you're so smart," she hissed.

"You're just a spoiled and ungrateful brat who got lucky. You've had everything handed to you on a silver platter while the rest of us actually had to work for our place in this world."

I leaned against the door, my voice dripping with the mean girl cruelty I had spent years perfecting.

"Work? Is that what you call it, Isabelle? Following me around like a shadow for a decade? You weren’t my friend. You were an accessory. Your 'career' as a travel influencer? It was a joke. Your content was boring, and only got likes because people hoped to see a glimpse of me in the background. Without me to post about, you're just another filter with no substance."

"Shut up!" she screamed, her palm hitting the door with a dull thud.

"And let's talk about your family, shall we?" I continued, twisting the knife.

"Your father is one bad investment away from a cardboard box, and you know it. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? That’s why you had to find a sugar daddy to take care of you. You didn't find love, Isabelle; you got on your knees and sucked an old man’s dick for some pocket money. Without his money, you'd be on the street, doing the same thing, only for less cash!"

A silence followed. It was the silence of a woman pushed past her breaking point.

"You think you're so high and mighty," Isabelle whispered, her voice trembling with a manic edge.

"Harrison told me to stay away from you. He told me he'd 'take care' of you. But he's soft. He's always been soft when it comes to you."

I pressed my ear on the wall. She was going into my father’s master suite across the hall. I heard a drawer slam open. I knew what was in my father’s bedside table. A custom-made .45 caliber semi-automatic.

"If he won't take care of you, I will!" Isabelle screamed, her footsteps returning, heavier now.

"I'll tell him you tried to escape! I'll tell him I had no choice!"

The electronic lock hissed. The deadbolt clicked open.

I turned off the light and dived behind the door just as it swung inward. Isabelle burst into the room, her face a horror show of white bandages and dried blood, her eyes wide and wild. She held the heavy handgun with both hands, the barrel shaking as she scanned the darkness.

"Where are you, you bitch?" she shrieked.

"Come out! I'll kill you! I swear to God—"

I didn't give her a second to breathe. I lunged from behind the door, the pepper spray in my left hand. I aimed for the gap in the bandages and squeezed the trigger.

The orange mist hit her eyes and nose in a concentrated burst.

Isabelle let out a sound, a wet gurgle of pure agony. The gun went off, the roar deafening in the enclosed space. A bullet tore through the headboard of my bed, followed by another that shattered a mirror, sending a rain of glass across the floor.

"I can't see!" she wailed, dropping the gun and clawing at her face.

"My eyes! Oh God, it burns!"

She stumbled blindly toward the center of the room, her hands flailing. I swung the softball bat with everything. The heavy wood connected with the side of her head with a dull, sickening crack.

Isabelle’s legs gave out instantly. She crumpled to the rug like a puppet with its strings cut, her breathing shallow and ragged.

I didn't stop to check her pulse. I grabbed the gun from the floor, tucked it into my waistband, and grabbed a handful of her hair. I dragged her unconscious body across the room and shoved her into the back of the walk-in closet, behind the rows of designer dresses she had wanted so much.

I slammed the closet door shut and turned the manual lock on the outside. Then, I stepped into the hallway, closed my bedroom door, and engaged the electronic lock from the outside panel.

I stood there for a heartbeat, my lungs burning, the taste of pepper spray and gunpowder on my tongue.

I didn’t have much time left to reach the garage.

Outside, the red Lamborghini was waiting, a silent beast in the shadows.

I slammed the gear into reverse, the tires shrieking on the concrete as I tore out of the estate. The iron gates were closing as the security approached, who probably heard the shots fired, but I didn't slow down. I pushed the accelerator to the floor. I cleared the gate by an inch, the red car flying onto the highway.

I was free.