Offside (52 page)

Twisting and turning, I got myself in position to lift the wheelchair off the ground, but as soon as I looked at it, I knew there wasn’t any point. Where the wheel had been kicked, the frame was bent. There was no way it was going to spin even if I did manage to get it back up and pull myself into it.

“Fuck!” I grunted. It would have to be all me, then. It was a good thing my arms were basically back in shape, but where was I going to go?

There was no way I was going to make it out of the house and down the mile-long driveway to the highway. Even if I did, I’d probably be run over before anyone saw me. I looked out the window and watched the rain pour down. There was a flash of lightning and thunder in the distance.

Yeah, no way.

We didn’t have a landline, so I needed a cell phone.

Dad’s was probably in his pocket.

Fuck.

I rolled over and sat up, splaying my arms behind me to lean against them. My back was to Dad’s body, and that was just fine with me. I took a few breaths to prepare myself, focused my mind on the single goal of getting his phone, and used my arms to maneuver myself backward across the floor while my legs dragged uselessly.

I knew I was close—I could smell it. I swallowed and then held my breath as I reached behind me and touched his leg. With a shiver, I first ran my hand up to one pocket and then the other. Nothing. Not in his back pockets, either. I forced myself to look at his shirt, but there wasn’t a pocket there at all.

“Fuck!” I yipped as his hand dropped from his leg to the floor. I quickly pushed myself away—across the study and right out the doorway, where I lay panting for several minutes.

Okay, no phone on Dad. He must have left it somewhere. I pulled myself the rest of the way into the hall, glad for the smooth hardwood floors, and could have cried when I saw a small black rectangle lying on the floor near the entrance to the kitchen. With a couple of breaths to get me going, I pulled myself across the floor until I reached Dad’s phone.

Well…part of it, anyway.

The screen was cracked and dark, and no matter how much I poked at it, nothing happened.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I screamed. I banged my fist on the floor and stared at the shattered screen. I looked around quickly and saw a small, black mark on the wall where he had obviously thrown it.

What was I going to do now? He had hidden my phone. It could be anywhere in the whole fucking house. I had to call someone…Nicole, Greg, 911…anyone. How else could I tell someone that I was here? That Dad was…Dad was…

Laptop.

I lifted my eyes to the stairs leading up to the third floor where my laptop was waiting for me in the closet.

Three flights of stairs.

There was no fucking way in hell.

I would never make it.

I was nearly exhausted just from dragging myself from the study, down the hall, to the kitchen, and that was all one level. Upstairs? Using just my arms? I might be able to make it halfway, but then I’d have to sleep for a freaking day before I could go on. I just couldn’t last that long without help, unless…

A small black doctor’s bag caught my eye where it sat next to the PT equipment in the living room. Steven must have left it here when Dad threw him out. Again, I wondered what their argument had been about, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was he left it behind in his haste. From my experience the previous day, I already knew the collection of hypodermic needles full of testosterone and adrenaline was inside his bag.

Fifteen minutes later, I was at the bottom of the stairs with a shot of adrenaline in my hand.

As I looked up to the top of the first flight and contemplated the length times three, I couldn’t help but conjure images of Julius Caesar and hear Shakespeare’s words through his lines: “Men at some time are masters of their fates: the fault, Dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.”

I was going to have to get myself up those damn stairs, no matter what.

I was going to contact my Rumple.

At the bottom of the stairs, I tried to get my breathing under control, calm myself, and figure out just how the hell I was going to shove a needle into my own arm. I mean, really, how does somebody do that? Just shove it in, or does it have to be in the right spot? Did I have to hit a vein or muscle?

I had no fucking clue.

I tried to remember exactly where Steven had placed it, and when I looked over my arm, I could still see a slight bruise there.

Well, that settled that. I would go for the same spot.

I took another deep breath.

Damn.

I wasn’t sure if I could inject myself or not, so I decided to see just how far I could get first. Then I’d do it if I needed it. I was only wearing a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, though. I didn’t have any pockets, so I stuck the damn needle in my teeth and started up the first set of stairs.

The first three were okay. Once I got to the point where my whole body was on the stairs, it got harder. My legs were kind of in my way because I didn’t have enough control over them to keep them from holding me back. Not only was I pulling my body weight up, but I was also trying not to get my feet caught on the stairs as I advanced. Slowly.

I knew from years of traversing them that there were nine stairs for the first set, then what would have been two strides to get around the landing, then six more to get to the second floor. After another landing, there were thirteen more steps to the third floor. By the time my arms had reached the first landing, I was completely and totally wiped out, and I still needed to pull up the rest of my body.

Sweat was pouring from my forehead and into my eyes, and I was panting so hard, it was making my head swimmy. My muscles burned with the effort to pull myself even another six inches. If the stairs hadn’t been open—giving me a place to get a good grip—there was no way I would have made it as far as I had. I pulled again, bringing my shoulders up to the level of the last step, and that’s when I didn’t have anything else to grab in order to go any farther.

Collapsing onto the stairs with my head on the landing, I lay there and felt like I was going to pass out. My eyes closed, and despite how uncomfortable lying on the stairs was, I could have fallen asleep right then and there.

No…can’t do that. Gotta get Rumple…

I took the hypodermic out of my mouth, wiped some drool off the edge and tried to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do now.

Just shove it in there and do it
, I told myself.

Easier thought than accomplished.

I looked from my arm to the needle and then from the needle to my arm. They didn’t seem interested in magically joining up, so I took a few deep breaths, put the tip of the needle up against my skin, right over the previous bruise and…

… and just sat there, staring.

“Dammit,” I grumbled to myself. “Stop being such a pussy.”

I closed my eyes, took another breath, and shoved the needle into my arm.

“Mother
FUCKER
!” I screamed. It fucking hurt! I growled and groaned and wanted to yank the damn thing out, but I knew if I did, I would never, ever be able to get it back in. So I gritted my teeth, squeezed my eyes shut, and shoved down on the plunger.

I yelled out a few more choice words and yanked the now empty hypodermic needle from my skin. There was some blood there—but it was only a spot. I must not have done too bad a job of it.

I knew within a few seconds that it was working.

Heart pounding, blood racing, hands shaking—but definitely ready to grab hold of anything I could reach—I tossed the damn needle away and started pulling again. I grabbed the edge of the next flight of stairs and yanked up as hard as I could, muscles screaming. I scraped my chest slightly on the edge of one stair, but it just burned a little. My eyes kept blinking over and over again, and I just tried to ignore everything around me but the next stair.

And the next…

And the next…

I pulled and pushed until my legs made it to the second landing, where I had to pause and force myself not to throw up. Then I reached out and grabbed the first step of the final flight. Pull, shift, groan; pull, shift, groan…

Another step.

Another.

The top.

I could have cried in relief, but I still had to get to the end of the short hallway.

Pull, shift, groan.

Don’t stop.

Gotta contact Rumple.

I flipped over on my back and tried pushing myself along the floor that way. At least the change in position was using a slightly different set of muscles, because the ones I had been using were just about done. It didn’t work, though, because sitting upright was making me dizzier. I flopped back down on my stomach and used my elbows.

Pull, shift, groan.

One more pull with my fingers digging into the plush carpet brought me to the doorway of my room. I had to stop again, panting and wheezing and feeling like my heart was trying to burst right out of my chest. My hands were shaking so badly, it was getting harder and harder to propel myself along, but I didn’t let myself rest too long. I was too close to my goal.

Contact Rumple.

I pulled my arms back up underneath me, braced them against the floor and pushed my body forward again, flopping down on my chest with a bit of a gasp. I did it again and again, and in this way I managed to get inside my bedroom and move myself over to the closet door.

Of course, due to my need for order, the door to my closet was closed.

I looked up at the handle and sighed between pants. I rolled myself over onto my back and pushed myself up until I was sitting down with my back against the wall next to the door. I reached up and touched the bottom of the handle with the tips of my fingers. I strained, tilted my body a bit to the side, and twisted the knob enough to open it.

My side felt like it was on fire from the stretching, but at least the door was opened up a crack. I pushed, and it opened the rest of the way. I looked high up to the shelf where my laptop was stored, knowing immediately that there was no way I could reach that high.

Was I ever, ever going to catch a break?

Break.

That’s what I was going to have to do—break something to get it to fall, and then hope to God the damn thing would still work. At least I knew through my own diligence that the battery would be fully charged.

I looked around and saw my heavy winter coat dangling from a hanger. I scooted to where I could grab it, pulled it down—breaking the hanger in the process—and positioned it over my head. I was starting to get dizzy and feel a little nauseated as my heart continued to pound and my hands continued to shake. I knew I wasn’t going to last much longer. Taking yet another deep breath, I closed my eyes, tightened the coat around my head, and slammed my shoulder against the set of shelves.

Some of my books fell along with a stack of school folders and one of those boxes of sixty-four crayons with the little sharpener in the back. No laptop, though I could see it had shifted a bit with the impact. I slammed into the shelves again, raining more crap down on my head, but at least the coat blocked anything from hitting me too hard.

I peeked out from under the coat and saw the laptop sticking about a third of the way off the shelf. One more hit ought to take care of it. I covered my head again, tried to ignore the pounding in my chest, braced myself and smashed into the shelves a third time. The laptop fell, landing straight on my knee, which hurt like a bitch. I really didn’t care, though. I got it!

I dropped down to the floor and lay there as my fingers worked the switch on the side, opened it, and turned it on.

I could have sworn it took about seven and a half million years for the damn thing to boot up.

“Be online, be online, be online,” I chanted as the little “Starting Windows” message disappeared, and the laptop displayed my Manuel Neuer desktop theme. I waited for the IM to automatically start…

…and then remembered I had deleted my account.

“Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck!” I screamed and beat my fist on the carpet.

I rolled to my stomach as my arms, side, and knee all protested the shift in position. I pulled up Google, found the right app, created a new account, screamed at whatever bastard had snatched up SoccerGod2014, and managed to create one called NeedMyRumple instead. With a few more keystrokes, I opened up my little hacking program to get into her account.

Again, I started with the “be online” chant.

I accepted the friend request and waited for her profile to pop up in the otherwise empty list of friends.

BeautifulSkye18’s status was offline.

“Arrrghhh!!!” I screeched and dropped my head to the floor. My temples were pounding, my pulse could clearly be felt in every artery in my body, and I was really, really close to throwing up. I squeezed my eyes shut, and my vision went blurry. There were tears in my eyes, which just pissed me off. I reached out once more, set BeautifulSkye18’s profile to notify me with a chime when her status changed, turned the volume to the highest setting, and passed out.