Finding my Sea Legs

Tom is alive.

I heard the man say that outside the door, but he is captive someplace and they are trying to test him for something… and he is fighting like hell.

Finn is not with him. Finn is not with me. My heart sinks, and I start to feel nauseous again, after all. They have taken my baby, and done something to me to make me sick, and now I am tied to a cot, nauseous, weak, and with a migraine the likes I’ve never felt before. They better not have hurt my child, or there will be hell to pay.

Beyond the throb of my head, and the swimming in my ears, I can hear shouts and voices from somewhere far away. Is that my Tom?

I start to work my legs to loosen the straps around my knees. Slow, methodical, isometric movements stretch the fabric that binds me.

I pray to someone I can’t name for his guidance and safety. I plead and I cry, and I wait. My breasts throb and swell with the unconsumed milk they have made for my son, and tears stream copiously down my face as I search for my strength reserves. How long have I been here? How long since Finn has eaten?

There is someone outside my door. She sounds upset. I think she is crying. Why would my captor be crying? She is not a hostage, I heard her talking to that man about Tom. I think I hear her walk away, but I can’t be sure.

The strap around my knees is loosened, and I start to work the one around my ankles.

I will not sit here and wait. I must get out. I must find Tom, and I MUST find my son. I will kill whoever took my son from us. with my hands. I will not flinch, and I will not waiver. It won’t be hard, and I won’t regret it. He is my blood, and my life, and I created him, and he is my responsibility. He is my everything, and I will not let him down, or I don’t know if I can live with myself.

Who the fuck are these people? As if the Zombies weren’t enough! Where am I, and why? What happened to me in that cornfield? Was I tranqued? Did they make me sick? Am I going to die?

They said Tom got in a fight, and I worry about his well being. I know he is tough. Strong, robust, and healthy. He has always had great strength and endurance, and I hope they serve him now. I hope they haven’t hurt him. I can’t live out there on my own. We’re Team Curry, and we need to get out of here together.

The fabric is slack around my ankles, and I am able to slip them through the strap. I arch my back and work at pulling my knees up to my chest to get them out, as well, but this is harder than it sounds. Every movement strikes searing pain into my head and back, and renews the feeling of impending vomit in the back of my throat.

I vomit, and I rest. I need a few moments to build up my strength so I can get out of these straps. With one giant push, I free my knees, and as I catch my breath, I start to scoot down on the cot to get my chest free of the strap that was thankfully, on top of my breasts, rather than under them. Thank God for small favors, right? If it didn’t hurt so much, I might have laughed.

I fall to the floor of the room. It is cold and feels like linoleum. My vision isn’t so good, and my glasses are missing. I scan for something I can use to cut the rope off of my hands.

I hear voices outside. There is no time for my hands. I crawl next to the cot near the door, and assume the position. IMPACT taught me to use my legs to their fullest. Sick or not, I am fighting for my life here, and someone’s groin is about to get the worst pounding of it’s life. I hope the mother fucker’s junk is severed.

The handle of the door starts to turn, and I see the blinding fluorescent light from outside. It’s go time.