Method 15 33 Read Free Page B

door. Noises. Uncomfortable noises with him.
    Tempering my expectations, I slid the zipper on the pink case, anticipating one dull and stubbed pencil.
    No way. Not only two new pencils, but a twelve-inch ruler, and a pencil sharpener too
. The black sharpener had the number “15” on the side. I took immediate stock of this valuable asset, which I labeled, Asset #15, specifically the razor within.
Asset #15 presents with its own label
. I smiled at the whimsical thought that the sharpener purposefully joined my plot, a faithful soldier reporting for duty, and determined “15” would form at least a portion of the name of my escape plan.
    So as to make my captor feel appreciated for his effort, I plugged in Asset #14, the TV, and pretended to watch. Obviously, I didn’t really care about his precious ego, but these ruses weengineer to trick our enemies, lull and rock them safely in their weak insecurities, until the time comes to spring the trap, pull the cord, and strike with the swift hand of death. Well, maybe not
so
swift, perhaps a tinge prolonged.
He needs to suffer, just a little bit
. I unhinged the bucket and used the sharp ends of the handle as a screwdriver.
    Not one creature in the house or in the fields beyond surpassed my consciousness that night. Even the moon shrunk to a sliver of dawn while I worked the whole of Night 4.
    He did not notice the subtle difference in my jail cell upon delivering my breakfast on Day 5, again on the offensive china plate. At lunch, I fought back a giggle when he asked if I wanted more water.
    “Yes, please.”
    He had no idea what lay ahead for him, nor the lengths I would go to impose my brand of justice.

    I don’t care what the news said at the time, I did not run away. Obviously. Why would I have run away? Sure, they were mad. They were furious, but they would support me. They were my parents, and I their only child.
    “But you are an honor student? What are you going to do about school?” My father had asked.
    They were even more baffled during the clinic visit when they learned I had hidden my condition for seven months.
    “How can she be seven months pregnant?” Mother said to the obstetrician, even though her voice did not match the way her eyes accepted the undeniable sight of me.
    In reality, I had not merely “gained some weight,” but had grown a perfectly round globe beneath my then swelling breasts. Embarrassed with her own self-delusion, Mother hung her head and sobbed. My father put a tenuous hand on her back, not sure what to do with the woman who rarely shed a tear. The doctor looked at me and pursed his lips, kindly though, and he changedthe subject to the near future. “We’ll need to see her again next week. I want to run some tests. Please stop at the receptionist for an appointment.”
    If only I knew then what I know now, I would have been more perceptive and caught the clue in real time. Instead, I was too wrapped in my parents’ disappointment to realize the duplicity behind the receptionist’s glare or the chlorophyll fog surrounding her misplaced presence. But I remember now; I had subconsciously logged this information at the time. As we approached her, the white-haired, tight-bunned woman with green eyes and false pink cheeks addressed only my mother.
    “When did the doctor say she should return?” the receptionist asked.
    “He said next week,” my mother answered.
    My father hovered over the scene, sticking his head into my mother’s space; his legs dovetailed hers—they appeared a two-headed dragon.
    Mother fidgeted with her purse with one hand and opened and closed her other around a non-existent stress ball by her thigh. The receptionist studied her appointment book.
    “How about next Tuesday at two? Oh, wait, she’ll be in school, right? Prospect High?”
    Mother hates unnecessary dialogue. Normally, she would have ignored, even sneered, at the irrelevant question about my high school. Normally, she might answer such a