Through The Valley by Yates, B.D. (feel good books .txt) 📕

Now that I'm exhausted and my hands are broken, he thought sarcastically, the real work begins.

He moved his hands in a masturbatory motion, keeping the spearhead's blade pressed into the rope as he rocked it back and forth with his wrists and fingers. He couldn't tell if he was making any progress or not. The rope Roy used around camp had been multicolored because it was made from clothing, and clothing would not cut as easily as an aged hemp rope might.  His blind sawing was the furthest thing imaginable from surgical.  It was panicked hacking.

  He dragged the spearhead against the tough rope until the pain was too much to bear, then, gripping the broken handle as tightly as he could, forced his hands apart. There was no give. Only the red, raw sting of the friction burns in his flesh.

  "God DAMN it!"

  "I don't want to die," Pup said softly. "I don't want to die. I don't want to die."

  "You're not going to," Emmit huffed, grinding his teeth together so hard that he could hear them creak. His forearms felt like he had dipped them into a vat of burning oil, but he would not stop. He could not stop.

  He felt the spearhead slip out of his grasp and nearly dropped it.  It was time for a quick breather.  He lay on the floor like a crippled dog, listening to the creak and howl of the wind outside as old man winter curled his long and frostbitten fingers around the little shed, doing his best to crush it.

Alright.  Again.

  Emmit counted to three silently, steeling himself for the pain that would come when he tried to break his binds again.  The patches of missing skin on his wrists had begun to bleed. He crossed his wrists, then yanked his hands apart.

  They flew away from each other like ricocheting pool balls, rebounding only slightly as the frayed rope between them held on. Emmit had been so prepared for failure that he almost didn't notice the progress he had finally made. He paused for a minute, considering it, then giggled maniacally and whipped his arms apart again. Again. Again. He could hear a diminutive shredding sound each time he did it.  The god damned bastard of a rope was giving way.  He was escaping.

  Almost almost almost almost—

  He now had enough room to bring his knees to his chest and pass his savaged arms around them. Rolling over to sit on his ass, he brought both feet up, and rested the dirty soles of his shoes on the frayed rope. He mule kicked out while pulling his arms behind him like a rower—

PLEASE—

  The rope snapped, allowing his stiffened arms to swing free.  He gave himself a few seconds to rub his aching muscles, which were quickly filling with blood as the circulation returned to nooks and crannies that he hadn't even realized had gone numb and cold.  He pawed at his wrists, wiping away the slimy sheen of blood, and felt small flaps of skin tug and sway under his fingers like old couch leather.

No time.

  Emmit brought the spearhead down between his ankles and began furiously stabbing and sawing at the ropes that held his feet.  It was worlds easier when he could see—well, almost see—what he was doing.  He made short work of them, weakening and unravelling the threads before kicking his legs like an Olympic swimmer and severing them neatly in half.  He stood, finally, after what felt like a years-long struggle, and in that moment, he sort of did feel like a superhero.  Or a shitty magician, at the very least.

  The fire.

  The tiny flame in Roy's small fire pit was suffocating and starving at the same time, flickering weakly as it threatened to go out.  He needed it; he needed it for warmth, and he needed it for light.  But a bigger fire meant more light and more smoke, which could mean more attention that he didn't want or need.  He had to take the risk.  If he had a little more light, he might be able to focus his defunct eyes and find something better than a broken spear to arm himself with.

  He started with the remnants of the ropes, gathering them up and tossing them into the firepit in a tangled wad.  He stood for a second to make sure they were flammable and enjoyed seeing them catch.  The hungry flame first nibbled at them and then swallowed them entirely, reducing them to dark ribbons of ash that curled and drew in on themselves like salted slugs.  The dim red glow of the room swelled to a brighter orange, but it was still too dark to do much good.  He needed more.

  Emmit dropped to his knees, swiping his hands around the sooty floor beside the firepit.  There had to be more wood for the fire, right?  Roy was too organized, too anal, to leave his secret shed unprepared.  What better place to store firewood than near the fire pit?  His eyes wide and unblinking, Emmit scoured the area around the firepit in widening circles.  Finally, his palms brushed against a small pile of chopped logs and branches that had been stacked into a tidy pyramid in the corner.  Emmit hugged as many as he could hold against his sweat-drenched body, stumble-walked on his knees to the recuperating flames, and dumped them in all at once.  A glittering whirl of red sparks burst up and were sucked out of the smoke hole like a backwards drain, and with a hasty and loudening crackle, the fire roared back to life.  The inside of the little meat locker filled with a yellow, white-hot light that was so bright and lively that Emmit shielded his eyes from it.

The first thing he was able to see was another strand of Roy's custom rope, stretched from wall to wall across the fire