I hold one arm up, shaking at the exertion. “Let’s get this over with.”
Rome’s face, normally so composed, crumbles. Perhaps my casual acceptance of the violence he must inflict upon me is terrifying. He doesn’t see the frantic dread working its way through me like poison. He kneels beside me, checking me over for injuries. I brush his hands away, on the verge of a panic attack. If he doesn’t get my blood onto the newspaper quickly enough, I know our captor will deliver on his promise, sending enough electricity through my shock collar that I’ll wet myself. Or worse. How much voltage does it take to stop a heart so that it never beats again? I don’t know. I don’t want to know.
“I can’t hurt you,” Rome mumbles, “there has to be another way.”
I find my way to a sitting position, tucking my legs underneath me, as I take hold of Rome’s hand, guiding the knife toward my wrist. “We don’t have time,” I mutter, pressing the knife he’s holding into my flesh.
“Jesus!” I jump as the blade sinks into my skin, ruby red blood springing up immediately.
“Shit,” Rome mutters, as he tries to pull the knife away. “I’ll cut myself. Not you. Not you.”
I still have my hand over his, and I guide the knife back down to my wrist forcefully. “Didn’t you hear what he said? Proof of life. As in, my life. My blood. My DNA. The engagement ring must not have been enough.”
“Engagement ring?” Rome asks suddenly. It’s a good distraction, me talking about my impending nuptials. Well, now the only thing impending on my schedule is my eventual escape or death - but before we landed in this hellhole, I was very much a taken woman. Never mind the fact that the man I was to marry was nothing to me. An arrangement I inherited from my dearly departed older sister, a future husband I could never love.
“Yes, engagement ring,” I echo, moaning through clenched teeth, as I cut deep enough to get a steady flow of blood - but, hopefully, not deep enough to kill myself. There’s a fine line between self-mutilation and death, and I pray I’ve stayed on the right side of it for now.
Who knows, if we have to stay here much longer, my proof of life wrist-slashing mission might become my proof of death suicide mission.
“Jesus, Avery,” Rome protests, using his considerable strength to wrench the knife away. “Stop.” He places the knife on the ground beside him, just out of my reach, and drops the newspaper beside it.
“No,” I cry, reaching for the rolled-up newspaper. “I have to get enough blood on the newspaper.”
I watch as scarlet liquid courses from the wound along my inner wrist, pooling at the spot where Rome’s heavily tattooed fingers are wrapped tightly around my hand. It looks surreal, the black ink on his tanned knuckles and fingers against my milky skin and my bright red blood. “You’re wasting it!” I struggle with him.
“Avery, look at me,” Rome demands. I meet his gaze, his normally indifferent blue eyes suddenly burning with emotion. “I’m going to get us out of here, okay? Do you hear me?”
I shake my head, grabbing again for the newspaper with my good arm, the one that isn’t currently bleeding. This time, I succeed in snatching it up. I shake it open, wrenching my arm out of Rome’s grasp, laying my arm flat across the newspaper to ensure I get the rest of my blood soaked in.
I stay there as the minutes drag past, squeezing my arm, trying to get more blood to rise to the surface. But it’s no use. In my weakened state, my blood pressure is probably too low to pump out enough blood to get more than a few drops on the paper. I know that might not be enough for the police to test for DNA, because I’ve watched a true crime series or two in my life, and I know what proof of fucking life means.
“Avery,” Rome tries again. I push him in the chest, hard, avoiding the side where he was shot. “Shut up,” I whisper, getting up on my hands and knees, snatching the knife from beside him. “It’s not enough,” I explain, gesturing to the drops of blood on the newspaper. “It’s not enough!”
“Okay,” he says helplessly. “Tell me what you want me to do.”