Art Gallery
By Steven M Nedeau
(September 2021)
Wincing in pain she felt along the walls, trying desperately to find her way in the darkness. Fingers explored, searching for a window, a light switch, an opening. Textures changed from wallpaper to wood, from stone to brick, to wet. She yanked herself away from the wall to stand still in the black of the room. What had she touched? It was soft, soft and wet, like velvet. Her mind reeled at the possibilities.
Her fear turned to anger, and with the anger came courage. It welled up inside her, the adrenaline surge becoming strength. She rolled her shoulders backward, steeling herself for whatever was to come, and reached out again.
The pain in her wrists was beginning to lessen. Indentations from the zip ties were beginning to fade from where they had dug in during her escape. Her head ached. Her joints moved like old machinery, complaining.
The wetness at the wall turned out to be someone. Breathing long and slow, she moved past, knowing it was too late for this someone, feeling guilty for her dismissal of the lifeless body. In the moment she had seen it only as an object in her path, blocking her escape. She moved on.
The brick under her fingers gave way to wood again. She touched lightly, feeling the decorative cuts in the six panel door, feeling the paint flakes falling away at her touch until she located the doorknob. Turning it easily, she pulled on the door.
It did not open.
The paint flakes from the door dug into her skin, forcing her to stop and brush them off the bottom of her feet before her blind inspection of the door continued. Halfway between the knob and the top of the door she found a nail, the reason the door wouldn’t open.
She focused every ounce of her strength into her hands. Her fingers pressed in on the rusty nail, pushing it back and forth, pushing it left and right and up and down, loosening its grip on the door. Forearms against the frame, she pulled, shoulders flexing through the pain, through the fear. The pressure of her exertion pounded in her veins.
The nail moved, creaking gently like a hinge. She stopped, listening to the sounds of the house and hearing only the beating of her heart.
Her heart, the sound of it reverberated in her ears. He had tried to stop it. She had, in response, managed to stop his. She would not become part of his collection, his wretched gallery. But, he would.