The night the Rhymer went whack

23

The room and tunnel wasn’t soundproofed. Purposely, for if ever needed, Straffe wanted sound to guide him to safety.

She seemed to have been in his arms for a while. Upstairs, down a few long hallways, at least three elevators—all while keeping her eyes closed and slowly regaining her strength. Straffe appeared to be in a hurry, hustling at every turn as they ultimately arrived at their destination. Somewhere underground she suspected as the air was a little chillier than a short while ago. He laid her on a cold metal table then stepped away to pace. Odd, she thought, as to no longer receiving his attention.

She coughed, spinning him in her direction as he rushed over sweaty and panicky. “Sharissa, are you ok,” he worried while attending and helping her sit up. Once situated, he scurried to the small refrigerator that was hidden in the corner, retrieved a bottle of water, and just as quickly rushed back.

She did feel some pain, she surmised, as she watched his swift movements to quench her thirst. Attempting to soothe the bump on her head, a searing pain shot through her arm, but what drew her attention most was the pain she felt between her legs. It was throbbing and sharp. She wanted to tell Straffe as he noticed her forehead and began tending that wound. “Are you ok,” he repeated, lightly dabbing the blood away. “Be still,” he directed as she shook her head yes.

“What happened,” she wondered out loud, trying to recall the events.

“Never mind that,” Straffe demanded, “we got to get you out of here. To somewhere safe,” he added as he ventured back to the refrigerator. But this time he didn’t open it. He squatted down, grunted and pushed it aside, revealing a trap door that opened into a tunnel. Maybe five feet high by five feet wide, it was pristinely clean with a duffle bag sitting right inside its entrance. She faintly watched his actions while straining to remember her attack, the blow to her head, the smell of the flowers, the chaos, the hand over her mouth and the sound of her pants being ripped off.

Disturbed by what was starting to come back, she realized that she wasn’t ready for the truth, so she shifted her concentration to Straffe as he filled the suitcase with some food and utensils. He quickly grabbed a pair of jackets out of a corner closet and stuffed them in as well. “Come quick, we have to hurry,” he urged as he grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the opening.

“Where,” she questioned halfheartedly resisting his demand.

“To safety,” he reaffirmed. “We have to move quick!”

She trusted his judgement and got on her hands and knees. “Where’s Dashet,” she questioned, receiving only silence in return.