50.
It’s all going in slow motion. The
screw approaching my eye. The deep, guttural laughs emerging from two hundred
pounds of back-stabbing Detective Cipriani. It’s like a video played at slower
than slow speed. I pray to the good Lord, if it’s possible for the good Lord to
hear me, Please make me pass out. Pass. Out. Now!
But it doesn’t happen.
I maintain total consciousness.
At the same time, I’m trying to
lift my right foot up and down in order to take advantage of an exposed nail
that’s embedded into the old chair’s lower right leg. Trying to do it
unnoticeably. If I lift and lower my foot, the duct tape wrapped around my
ankle scrapes against the nail. I can feel it tearing just a tiny bit with each
up-and-down movement.
I see the needle-like corkscrew
about to enter i
