Fading

The window sat high in the wall. The odd gust of wind would press the plants outside to the glass. The yellow flowers would be clearer when it happened; marigolds.

Her grandmother kept marigolds. They bloomed for a long time, from spring to fall, never-ending pom poms of yellow, sometimes fringed with brown. She hated their scent, but the flowers were happy. The blooms dwindled in number though, which meant summer was dying.

She was dying.

Marigold had been her grandmother's name.

The girl sat on her heels, back to the wall stud, the plastic rustling. It held all the wall guts away; the insulation, some wires. The basement was unfinished, and the dust told her it had been that way for a while.

Across the expanse of bare concrete floor a wooden staircase taunted her. The collar around her neck rubbed her skin raw and the chain had been tested enough that she knew she could come no closer than ten feet to the staircase.

At her bare feet a tray held an empty bowl, the vegetable soup gone, and she kept the spoon in her hand, running her thumb around the rounded end. With the meal done her stomach growled for more, her will to live insatiable.

The soup was doctored. As the last few weeks passed by she played up the sedative, as though it still worked.

In her half-addled state, wisdom said this growing immunity should be kept secret, like an asset.

An escape.

The creak of the basement door opening raised hair on her arms. No matter how often it happened, his approach spiked fear. Adrenaline rushed away the sedative, and she shifted her weight so it rested more against the wall. Her feet crept closer underneath her center of gravity.

"How's my golden Summer?" he called, sing-song and demented.

She said nothing. He hated that.

Instead, she let her head hang forward, as though nodding off.

"Aw, is my poor girl a bit tired?" Then a cough cut him off and he doubled over, a hackling wreck.

Her heart rate spiked. The first time she'd seen weakness in him; the day before he'd appeared coated in a sheet of sweat, flushed and out of breath. Complaining of a flu. He hadn't hurt her, either.

"I hope you're not feeling under the weather, too," he cooed, edging closer.

Just the stink of him turned her vision red.

"But I'm a bit better today, so I hope you finished your soup. Got to keep you feisty." He laughed. Her stomach rolled, no longer hungry just furious.

He leaned over to pick up the tray.

She shot upright as his head came down.

She used both hands to swing the spoon upwards.

Hot fluid rushed over her wrists. With a cry she pulled the spoon free again, turning it this time. The handle end squared off at the size of a screw head. It caught him in the side of his throat with enough force to make the skin gave way.

He screamed as he dropped to his side, and she allowed a minute to smile.

Then she rolled him to his back and thrust the handle into his other eye, all tissue giving way under her frantic need to kill him. Overkill him. Make sure he wouldn't get up.

When the red cleared from her vision she dropped the spoon, the clatter loud in the cavernous basement, even louder than her breathing.

Summer looked down at her hands, awash with his blood. The hole in his neck leaked something fierce. Her bare legs were likewise covered. She had no time to be squeamish.

He always kept the keys in his pocket. He liked to set them beyond her boundary, making sure she saw as he placed them on the concrete at the foot of the stairs. His cue that he was there to hurt her.

Hands shaking, she reached into his front pocket and plucked the keys out. She couldn't see the lock on her collar, but somehow as she trembled head to toe the key slid home and turned it. The click of the lock opening made her drop to her knees, head on her arms, body shaking as she sobbed.

She could barely trust herself to walk, certain that at any point the chain would pull her back to her corner. Even though her legs trembled, she crossed the room to the stairs. This had been forbidden territory moments ago. Now she climbed the wooden treads, using her hands to help steady herself.

A kitchen awaited at top of the stairs. Incredibly ordinary, with an broidered tea towel hanging on the oven. Old but clean, with shining linoleum. She took very little in, trying to decide how urgent it was to get out of the house.

Her strained ears could pick up nothing but her own over-excited heartbeat.

On the back of the door across from the stairs a coat hung. She slid it on, careful of her many bruises, but being covered was suddenly important. Downstairs, modesty long ago ceased being a concern.

This was a world anew.

The knob turned in her hand, and again she fought down the urge to weep. But this time she flung the door open wildly, and it bounced off the landing wall. She stumbled out into a backyard, with dry but cut grass. To the right, a flower bed had been cared for enough to have flowers planted, but they now grew wild and unruly. The marigolds crowded to the back of the space, trying to find sun. More deadheads than healthy blooms.

Her window. The flowers that helped her keep track of time.

The air felt cooler, she noticed. Overhead leaves yellowed, a few that had given up now littered the grass.

The cracked walkway led to a concrete driveway. No fence here, just warm cement underfoot as she stumbled out to a street she didn't recognize. A corner lot. She headed left to the nearest house. Inside she could hear a radio playing. Someone was home.

Ignoring the doorbell she hit the screen door with an open palm. "Please, help me," she croaked, voice unused to doing more than screaming. "Please, call the police."

The woman who answered her knocking seemed understandably shocked. As she pushed the screen door open Summer grabbed her hands, aware of the wet blood but desperate to make her understand. "Call the police," she gasped, then dropped to her knees. "Please call the police. I'm Summer Zoloto. I've been kidnapped. Please, call the police."

The woman gave a small cry, but left Summer and ran back into her house. Summer stayed slumped on the concrete stoop, listening to the woman calling for help in her home.

"Yes, it's her," the woman said, frantic. "That one that went missing. Summer. She's at my door. Please send help, she's hurt. She's bleeding."

Summer examined at her hands, still coated in drying blood. For once it wasn't hers.

The flowerbeds of this house had already been turned, the flowers long pulled out. Ready for autumn.

Summer was gone.

“But I’m here,” she whispered, eyes falling shut. “I’m right here. "