Our prompt for this week is:
"She slipped and fell, her arms flailing wildly."
(If "He" works better for you, go for it. We're pretty lax on the rules around here.)
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My response:
Turning back to the window, Tara chewed her lip. She was only one story up. She couldn't jump, but she also didn't have
to completely stop her fall. If she
could just slow it a little, she might survive.
The outside window sill was almost large enough for her to stand on, and
the sides and top were more than enough for her to curl her fingers
around. If she stood up, she ought to be
able to swing her body over to the pipe.
Tara had to hold the
window up as she pulled her body though, first sitting on the windowsill, then
pulling her legs up one at a time. Her
skirt was a problem. It billowed and
furled around her, making it difficult to get her feet situated. The silk on her bodice strained along the
seams. This gown was made for ballrooms,
not escaping from prison. Still, Tara
managed to slide out. The bottom of the
window slid down her shins and landed on her toes as she stood on the sill,
facing the building. Tara's fingers
clung to the window frame, and her stomach, while void of the light and power,
clenched in a furious ball. She'd never
done anything like this before.
The weight of the
window rested heavy over the arches of her feet, but Tara couldn't help but
think how, if this worked, the window shutting would work in her favor. They wouldn’t know where she'd gone. For just an instant, Tara wondered what she'd
do when she got down – going back in wasn't an option anymore – but she pushed
the thought aside, letting her tunnel vision take over again.
Her nails scraped
painfully against the grain of the wood.
Tara was grateful for the layer of new paint that spared her two
handfuls of splinters. With the window
down, she could only barely make out the voices of the officers, but her gut
told her she was running short on time.
She switched her left hand to where her right hand was holding on, then
slipped her feet out from beneath the window, letting it fall closed as quietly
as possible and balancing on the balls of her feet. She took a shallow breath – a deep one would
have pressed her away from the wall and made her fall – and reached out with
her right hand towards the pipe. Her
fingers found the cold metal right before she lost her balance. In a flash, her left hand followed her right
and circled the pipe. Her legs slipped
out from under her and dangled. She
wasn't strong enough to hold herself up, so the pipe slipped through her grasp
as she fell. Luckily, she managed not to
cry out.
It would have worked
perfectly according to her plan, if it hadn't been for the bracket holding the
pipe to the wall, just at the height of a man above the ground. Tara's right hand smashed into the bracket
with a flash of pain, and she let go of the pipe, tumbling backwards. The force of her body hitting the hard ground
jarred her jaw, but the pain of her teeth smacking together was overwhelmed
with the pain in her rear as she landed on her tailbone.
Tears welled in her
eyes from the effort to keep from crying out.
In her life, she'd never suffered such injuries, not to mention three at
once, but if she valued her life, she didn't have time to feel sorry for
herself. She tucked her right hand to
her chest automatically, the dark blood spilling down her gown.
The two boys looked
up at her, heads cocked. She glared at
them, and they turned back to their game.
The dog lifted his head and perked his ears at her, then went back to
his sniffing. In the moment of relative
safety, Tara looked down to assess the damage to her hand.
(Whoops, I guess I got carried away. She did fall, but her arms didn't flail wildly. But hey, the prompt is just inspiration, right?)
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