Everyday she watched the keys attached to his belt. As she listened to the clanging just outside the door, the unlatching of multiple locks, she wasn’t sure how many, she fingered the shard of broken glass she kept hidden behind her cot. It had been there for months. It would be her salvation.
She could see it in her mind, she played it over and over. Her brandishing the weapon, attacking him swiftly. His shriek of surprise, then labored moans of agony. Her grabbing the keys, opening the locks, running from the decrepit shed, the home that had been forced upon her for months. Shouting. Fresh air on her dirty face, jagged rocks under her feet. Free.
He was in. He turned and locked the door behind him, as he always did. This was her chance. But too quickly, he turned to face her, the doors secured behind him, wearing that same detached, sinister expression.
Minutes later, she listened to him locking the doors outside. It began to rain as her dinner grew cold at her feet. She reached for the shard again. It felt so heavy in her hands.