Alessandra Torre - End of the Innocence

Holding the phone away from his mouth, he spoke to the woman. “Get the bridesmaids. Have them call her roommates and find out when they saw her last. And get all of these people out of here.”

She nodded and turned, walking off with quick and efficient strides. Stevie walked in and Brad snapped his fingers, catching his attention. Covering the phone with his hand, he communicated everything to Stevie in one determined look. “My father. Find out where he is.”

A. Arm Across. I moved, wrapping my legs around his torso and pulling him tightly to my body, my left hand grabbing his right arm and shoving it across his body. He fell toward me, his eyes meeting mine in surprise.

S. Scoot away. I moved quickly, sliding my body away from him, pushing him down my chest. He swung his free arm upward, but the additional space made him unable to reach my face.

L. Leg over his shoulder. Putting his trapped arm in my other hand I waited until he reached back with his free hand and then I swung my leg over his shoulder, his head now trapped between my legs. He gritted his teeth, glaring at me, struggling to free himself.

Brazilian Jujitsu was developed with one main focus: to allow smaller and weaker practitioners to defeat much larger and stronger opponents, using leverage in ways that couldn’t be overcome by strength or size. I had practiced this move for five months, able to easily submit Brad, a man of massive proportions and strength. This man, a hundred and seventy pounds of coward, caught off-guard and unprepared, was a cakewalk.

A. Ankle. I released his hand and grabbed my raised ankle, tucking it under my other leg and tightened my legs, causing a scissoring motion to occur on his neck.

P. Press Head. Pressing down on his head, I squeezed my legs.

The triangle choke did not kill through asphyxiation; instead it restricted blood flow to the head while making breathing difficult, causing the victim to pass out. I held tightly, unable to see his eyes, staring at the top of his head, a head that struggled, his free arm reaching but unable to inflict damage, and knew the minute that unconsciousness hit, his entire body going limp against me. I continued the hold, using the time to look around the room, taking my first assessment of the space. It was a small room, consisting of the bed we now laid on and little more. White linoleum floors, one metal folding chair, a squat counter, trash littering its surface. The door to the room was closed, giving me no clue into what lay behind it or if it was locked. I had two options at this point: release the man, giving myself anywhere between thirty seconds and a minute before he would gain consciousness; or, I could maintain the hold for another four minutes, until his brain starved for oxygen and he died.

I tightened the hold and waited, starting a slow countdown in my head.

♦♦♦

Very few people have held the life of another in their hands. Have had the horrific opportunity of choosing whether someone lived or died. I had no desire to kill this man. Horribly maim and disfigure him, yes. Lock him away in prison, yes. Death was a sentence I was not equipped to give. And four minutes was a long time to contemplate, a long time to calculate the time I would need to escape. But thirty seconds to escape, when facing a closed door, with no idea of what was on the other side—it was not enough time. So my choice was clear. Save him or save myself.

One minute. I looked down; the only part of the man visible was the top of his head. Spiky hair, thin enough that I could see pale skin underneath. I wondered if he had a family. If I was killing an innocent child’s father. I closed my eyes, forced myself to breathe, and counted. Listened hard to see if I heard anyone. Four minutes was a long time. I could be putting myself at risk waiting that long. Maybe it’d be smarter to stop. To release him and run like hell. Pray that a clean exit lay on the other side of that door.

Two minutes. My arms were tired. I had a cramp in my right bicep, a cramp that was screaming for attention. I shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, and second-guess my plan. I was killing this man. This was not a movie, or a book. He was dying, the life leaving him with each passing second, and would never wake up again. Would never hug his wife, or kiss his daughter. Would I be able to handle this? Was this one move that would mentally fuck me up for the rest of my life? And how selfish was I that my main concern, while killing someone, was about the physiological impact on myself? I focused on my breathing and told my whiny bicep to man the fuck up. I forced myself to slow my counting, and listen, but could hear nothing from outside the door.

Three minutes. Who did this man work for? Why was I taken? I thought I was safe, a non-issue. I thought Brad’s family would stay away, and any slight risk from outsiders would start after my marriage. I can’t do it. No matter who this man was, what his purpose, I couldn’t kill him. Maybe I wasn’t mentally strong enough. Maybe I wasn’t cruel enough. Three minutes had been long enough. Long enough for him to still live.

I moved before I could second-guess the decision, shoved his weight off my body, his mass hitting the floor with a dull sound. I avoided his face, avoided the slack expression of unconsciousness staring accusingly out at me. I sat up, swinging my legs off the bed, testing the stability of my limbs before standing. My head roared with pain, my throat was dry, and I was still naked from the waist down. I glanced over and saw gray fabric, my pants from last night, bunched in a heap on the floor, purple panties peeking out of the sweats. I yanked the clothing on, rushing to the door and twisting the knob, letting out a moan of relief when it turned. I hesitated, unsure of what lay on the other side, then yanked hard, bursting through the door and into an empty hallway.

Twenty seconds.

I ran, worn linoleum underneath, my eyes picking up and processing items as I moved. I seemed to be underground, the hall artificially lit, the rooms I passed windowless and dark. It was almost empty, my eyes picking up on offices and storage rooms flying past. I saw the sign for a stairwell and flung open the door, headed up the empty stairwell, my bare feet quiet on concrete steps. As I climbed, I thought, trying to plan some sort of strategy if I encountered someone. I had no weapon, no phone, weak arms and legs, exhausted from four minutes of exertion. It was a depressing equation my brain had no solution for.

I reached the first floor landing and said a silent prayer, pressing on the door. I moved through it into a short hallway and was then in an open space, some sort of a showroom, display boards lining faux walls, multiple kitchens and bathrooms back to back, carpet samples and tile choices covering a center open space. I turned, scanning, looking for the one thing I needed: an exit.

Ten seconds. Then I heard it. Salvation and damnation in one moment—a door opening, an electronic chime announcing its movement. Someone’s here.

I ducked, crawling on all fours until I was in a kitchen, an impressive Viking stove in between me and the door. I waited, holding my breath, listening to the sound of footsteps across the floor, casual and unhurried, the rustle of a plastic bag accompanying them. My lungs bursting, I inhaled slowly, trying to mask the sound with my hands. Then I heard the stairwell door open, banging shut on its return trip. It had taken me less than fifteen seconds to run through those halls and up those stairs. His trip would be slower, leisurely in its steps, but short all the same, meaning I needed to move now. I ran, heading for the door, almost weeping when it came into view, my hands slipping as they reached for the bar, yanking hard on the metal. A loud clang sounded through the room, the sound of metal hitting unyielding metal, the door barely budging. Locked.

“Your fiancée is missing, on her wedding day, and you wanna talk to the police chief?” The woman’s voice drawled through the phone, skepticism lacing every word.

“Yes. This is Brad De Luca, he will want to take my call.”

“I don’t care who you are—if you and the chief are such close buds, then call his cell. This is a line reserved for emergencies, not your girlfriend who decided not to walk down the aisle.”

“I did call his cell, and left a message.”

She snorted. “Then I guess he don’t want to take your call.”

“Goddammit, this is not a case of a runaway bride. This is foul play. Page. The. Chief.”

“Missing. Persons. Require. Twenty-four hours. Unless you got a bloody scene you wanna point us to, you need to call back after twenty-four hours have passed. I’ll leave a note for the chief with your number. If he wants to call you back before then, he can.”

He gritted his teeth, releasing a string of expletives when she ended the call. He turned, seeing his father before him, Stevie by his side. So the man had shown up.

“Is there a problem, Brad?”

“Come with me,” he said tightly, striding past the pair.

They moved, a staggered group of three, his father taking his time and depending heavily on his cane, his back erect and head up as he walked carefully behind Brad. They moved into a rectory office, Brad closing the door behind his father and waiting until he took a seat to speak.