Below is a previously unpublished short story, called The Grip. Enjoy!
Elizabeth raced through the lush jungle, ignoring the scenery she’d paid premium dollars to admire. The wide palms impeded her, the dilapidated sunshine exposing her to the threat of death. She ran as fast as she could, her hot breath scratching her throat, her flip-flops restricting her from running faster.
She cursed them: her flip-flops, her pastel blouse, even the frivolous ponytail she’d put her hair into when the world had been annoying yet rational, a ridiculous nod towards a youth she’d never really embraced.
She was never supposed to end up in a position like this. Harvard. Stanford Law. Partner of a ball-busting firm and spouse in a high-society marriage. The letters behind her name meant little now—or too much. And the cardio workout she’d endured after giving birth was nothing more than a cruel joke.
The damp, vibrant foliage abruptly disappeared as she ran out onto a dirt road. She stumbled to a stop. A road meant civilization. People. But which way? To her right the road slopped down in frozen waves towards the ocean, while to her left, it reached towards the jagged mountain. No structures were visible in either direction.
She spun and ran up the hill, taking the unexpected route, as she’d always done.
She didn’t get far when she heard a noise behind her. Oh god, he was gaining. Any moment he’d appear in the road. The sunlight screamed her location, the sickeningly-plump vegetation crowding the road to either side of her as if daring her to try to hide.
This trip had been supposed to help. To reset their marriage. What a crock. Not after what had already been revealed—yet even that now paled in comparison to the horror that had her racing for her life.
Stop it! Don’t look back. Can’t change it. Get a grip. Look at angles, at gaps to slip through. But this wasn’t a tort precedent. It was her existence.
The rustling grew louder.
Elizabeth dove for the underbrush. For a panic-inducing moment, she was unable to get through as if the vegetation wanted her to get caught. But the sweat covering her body enabled her to slip the green bars of her cage and she once more plunged into the thick jungle. After a few difficult steps, she found a narrow footpath. She took it immediately, racing higher up the hillside, and then threw up her hands as she nearly crashed into a thick stucco wall.
She careened off the imposing structure, her hands scraping the rough texture. A wall meant a house. People. Help! She almost cried out, but she feared her shout would lead him to her before anyone could arrive.
It was as if the wall was her enemy, preventing her salvation.
That’s stupid. Get a grip. There had to be a way in—but she couldn’t risk heading towards the road. Instead, she followed the wall in the other direction, her flip-flopped feet struggling towards the rear of the property.
The wall ended at the edge of a cliff. The scene before her was breathtaking, but she barely favored it a glance. The wall continued up the hillside, angling away from the edge of the cliff. Then she spotted it. A depression in the wall, from this angle little more than a strip of shadow. She hurried along the edge of the cliff towards it. She couldn’t hear her pursuer anymore. She didn’t think he was near. He’d assume she would’ve simply turned away, reeling blindly in a different direction in a desperate search for safety in this foreign land. But she had outsmarted him. Wasn’t the first time, the Neanderthal bastard.
She hurried to what she knew was a door in the wall, a back entrance. It would lead to the house, and then salvation. Even if no one was home, there would be a phone, a place to hide until authorities arrived, large men in starched shirts with shoulder stripes and polyester pants, imposing men who would eye her with disdain. She didn’t care. So long as they protected her. And then, when her safety was assured, she would retaliate. It wouldn’t be easy, but she’d grown up hard, a leggy brunette in a part of the world that refused to recognize women as equals. Her father had been one of the torchbearers of the old boy’s club. Every one of her successes served to spite him. She’d even selected a husband with a similar outlook, only she had never let him make any decisions that might affect her. Yet he’d tried. He’d given it his all.
Like one week in the tropics could’ve undone the damage from that basic conflict. She’d tried. She’d given it her all. Maybe it was her fault, for believing anyone could change who they were deep down. It was also her fault for using him as a whipping post. He wasn’t her father.
A part of her wished she could tell him she was sorry. The violence back in their suite, though, made that a moot gesture now. He’d almost succeeded, which surprised her. Even out of his league, he’d nearly triumphed.
Now it was her turn.
She reached the rear gate, a tall wooden door set between two thick columns. But the door held firm. Although rusty, the handle was solid. No matter how she jerked and pulled, she couldn’t open the door.
She heard a noise nearby. Somehow he’d found her. She took a deep breath as she leaned forward to peer through a small knothole in the door, ready to yell for help, for salvation, but the words died on her lips. Dark, squat, more of a fort than a welcoming abode, the house beyond appeared empty. But even if someone happened to be inside, they’d be too far away. No one would hear her, except for the one man she hoped wouldn’t.
He was approaching fast.
Her sweat-soaked ponytail smacked her cheek as she scrambled for a place to hide. The edge of the cliff was devoid of hiding places, though. The nearest spot was too far away to reach in time, even if she hadn’t been wearing stupid flip-flops. She was trapped.
* * *
Robert hurried along the wall towards the edge. He was hot, sweaty, out of breath, and so angry he could feel his blood pulsing in his temples. Spots formed in his sight but he ignored them. It was almost done. The nightmare, the constant badgering and barely-concealed hate, was almost over. He’d played the game too well for it to end any other way.
He turned the corner and skidded to a stop. The spots in his eyes grew and he blinked repeatedly, the frown on his face deepening. It couldn’t be.
The path was clear.
For as far as he could see, there was nothing but the wall and the cliff’s edge. There was no way she could’ve reached the opposite site. He’d been too close and besides, she was out of shape. Then he saw it. The door. He staggered forward, his sneakers scuffing in the gravel as he hurried over. A few tugs, though, and a look through the knothole assured him that she hadn’t gone inside. So where was she?
His eyes dropped as he turned. That’s when he noticed the gravel.
* * *
Dangling over the abyss, Elizabeth struggled to be silent but couldn’t help it. She whimpered as she hung there, her fingers cramping as she clung to the cliff’s edge. The gravel dug into her scrapped skin. Her muscles shook as she hung there, using every ounce of strength to stay alive.
A shift in the light drew her eyes upward, and she found herself looking at her husband’s face. The words flew to her lips, words to defuse the situation, to reach an accord so he would help her. But their history together—the years of torment, of abuse, of latent issues she’d heaped upon him—closed her throat.
He stared down at her but made no move to help.
“Robert,” she managed as her fingers slipped.
He reached for her, but it wasn’t to actually help. It was to maintain the appearance, just like she’d taught him. Maintain the appearance of love, of blissful union, even when they’d stopped a vicious argument one time to greet their guests at the door to their penthouse. Only this time, it was an appearance of trying to help her.
She lost her grip.
Elizabeth dropped to the valley floor, taunted by a final vision of her pseudo-caring husband pseudo-reaching for her. Her anger rose. In her opinion, it was the only time he convincingly acted like he cared for her—
Pain exploded through her body and then all went as black as her heart.