Beyond Reach

She shouldn’t have defied him. Until she'd done that, he had allowed her relative freedom, sure of his control over her.

At the beginning of this second day of confinement he let her move around the room to stretch her legs and, occasionally, he even spoke to her. Mostly, she was left to her own thoughts, and that she did, sizing up what to do next.

As the morning had worn on, her attention had been drawn to the rustling sound of the sheaf of papers he was flicking through. She had watched him reach out occasionally to the phone, then withdraw his hand.

She knew what she had to do.

She waited until he was totally engrossed in whatever held his attention, then silently made her way to the table and made a grab for the phone, in her haste knocking it to the floor.

He was on her in a flash.

And that was the end of her freedom, the straps ensured that.

At midday, he gave her a meal. Still strapped to the chair, though her hands were free, she managed the sandwich. He watched her as she struggled to reach forward for the cup, the straps binding her to the chair restricting her movement. No help was offered or given. Following the meal, he untied her for toilet privileges. She was docile and obeyed his orders. Afterwards, he didn’t tie her to the chair, for which she was grateful as she was exhausted from trying to outwit him.

She dozed off, head bowed forward at an awkward angle.

The phone rang, waking her with an abruptness that startled her. She slid from the chair onto the floor, banging her head.

He made her sit on the floor, saying, "Sit there and don't move."

She could see that his mind was half on her and half on the phone as he answered it. He spoke impatiently, looking at the papers and gesturing in the air with them. It frightened her when he was annoyed. She became nervous as he began to pace around the room.

She realised his attention was momentarily distracted from her. But for how long?

Across the room, the knife on the bench glinted in the reflected glow of the fluorescent light, beckoning her. She just had to make the most of this opportunity. It might not occur again.

Silently, with unwavering determination she moved crab-like across the intervening space until she reached the bench. She groped for the knife, hand outstretched but, frustratingly, it was just beyond her reach. She silently pulled herself up from her sitting position, fingers extended trying to make contact with the implement.

There was a crash as the phone was dropped, a pounding of feet and eighteen-month-old Amy was scooped up by her terrified father, and the knife whisked back into its child-proof drawer. Then it was back to the high-chair, straps buckled up, accompanied by frustrated screaming.

She knew there would be no second chance to get to that nice shiny knife.

She shouldn’t have defied him!

- Mary Hart 
Tocumwal, New South Wales, Australia.