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Back 3 a.m.
Chapters (67)
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

What had Ewen said, that creating a nightmare is like trying to create a tornado? You need to create an instability in the mind. With my synapses firing twelve percent higher than average, I should be able to control my brain. Keep it stable. Keep it free from tornadoes.

I start thinking of everything good in my life. My dad, my real dad — the greatest dad in the world; Lassie, my perverted BFF; Murdock, that amazingly stupid, loveable horse; and Ingrid. If I made it out of here, the second I saw her, I was going to propose. Tell her how sick I was of not being married to her. That I wanted to marry her and to knock her up.

I visualize our life together.

Me, her, Lassie, and a small boy, all wrestling on the bed. No one, not even me, worried about what time it is.

The door opens and my fantasy evaporates.

“I hate to get this party started early,” Ewen says, a syringe filled with pink liquid in his hand. “But I simply can’t wait any longer.”

He walks forward until his stomach is touching the table.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he says. “My Peaches went in for her annual check-up last week and guess what?”

He doesn’t wait for my guess.

“She’s pregnant,” he says. “Can you believe that? My Peaches, pregnant. Now, you wouldn’t happen to think your stupid little cat had anything to do with it, now would you?”

I can’t help laughing. “Yeah, I think he did. He probably fucked the shit out of her.” I keep laughing. “I hope that fat bitch wasn’t on top. She could have killed him.”

Ewen’s mouth tightens. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him truly upset.

“Now, she’s gonna get even fatter,” I say, in near hysterics.

He brings the syringe down.

I let out a scream and yank my left arm up.

Unlike my nightmare, where there was no give at all in the restraints, Ewen tightened the velcro on my left wrist fractionally looser than my right wrist.

It took me the last ten minutes, slowly, millimeter by millimeter, sliding my hand through. Half way, I felt my pinky snap. I nearly gave up, then I saw the syringe and gave one last yank, ripping the tendon off my thumb, and allowing my hand to slide free.

I slap away the syringe, sending it clattering to the ground. I reach out and grab the bottom of Ewen’s shirt. I have limited motion with both legs, one arm, and my neck restrained, but it’s as if the power of all of my extremities has been funneled into the three working fingers of my left hand.

I yank Ewen’s shirt toward the table. He fights me, slapping at my arm, but he is a fruit fly.