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“It’s none of your business until you give me an explanation for all this!” I shout back.
Without responding, the first cop turns around and charges at me. I’m only able to turn slightly to the left to run away before he’s captured me, gripping my arms and attempting to shove me into the wall again.
I manage to loosen his grip from one hand, but all I do is fall to the floor and hit my head on the corner of a side table.
For a split second, I’m able to crawl a few feet, but the cop grabs me by my sweatshirt and begins to drag me into the bathroom.
If my heart wasn’t pounding in my ears before, it sure is now. I’m incapacitated by terror, and I curse my biology for choosing to give in to the threat instead of fighting back. Where’s all that adrenaline that allows terrified mothers to lift runaway cars off their kids? Why does my brain have to surrender so easily?
“There’s nothing here!” shouts the other cop from the main bedroom area.
“Look again, you fucking idiot!” replies the first cop as he wrestles me into the chilled marble tiles of the bathroom floor.
They’re hellbent on finding something in here, but the best they’ll get is my credit card and a bag of marijuana gummies I got from a dispensary when I arrived in Vegas. They have to have the wrong person, but what on earth did therightperson do?
“Tell us where it is or we’ll find ways to make you talk,” says the cop as he takes a knife out of his belt. He holds it up to my eye, and I realize for the first time that I’ve never even considered what it would feel like to be stabbed.
Am I about to find out?
“I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about! I don’t have anything here! You already threw all my shit across the room. If I had what you wanted, you would have found it by now!” I shout. My voice is going to hurt so badly in the morning, but it’s worth it if I can play up my intimidation factor just a little.
Instead of choosing to reason with me, he grips my hair by the roots and pulls my head back as far as it will go. This isn’t the sexy kind of hair pulling at all – this man could rip my scalp off if he wasn’t holding back.
I shriek, but he covers my mouth with his other hand, shoving the hilt of the knife between my teeth. “Don’t make another fucking sound unless you’re going to cooperate with us, do you understand me?” he warns, pressing the textured fiberglass into my lips.
Given the location of my hotel, I wouldn’t be surprised if the walls here were soundproof. I’m sure such a feature is a bonus for travelers or newlyweds/ However, right now I’m certain that I’ll end up on the front cover of a magazine spread about a scandalous Las Vegas murder. I can see it now - graphic Polaroid photographs depicting my limp, naked body sprawled out over a gummy black pool of blood.
How much longer will this go on for before I start to plead for mercy?
What kinds of cops are these men? How could they feel bold enough to be doing this?
I’m ready to start kicking and screaming as a hail Mary, but I need to wait until he shows some weakness.
I lose the rigidity in my limbs, choosing instead to drop my limbs to the floor in a performative demonstration of surrender. Perhaps if he believes that I’m harmless and delicate, he’ll let his guard down just enough for me to escape. At the very least, I need to seize the opportunity to grab someone’s attention.
The other cop is tearing into the mattress and couch cushions now, and I’m struck with the realization that I’ll have to pay an insane fee for the damages if I manage to survive this. What a stupid thing to be worried about.
I force myself to start crying quietly, which comes easily enough, given the circumstances. I’d never expect men like this to experience something like empathy for a crying woman, but they might be dumb enough to believe that my tears are a sign that they’ve won.
I hear a glass break, and the other cop begins shouting something in a language I don’t understand. The cop with his hands in my hair sighs heavily, then barks something back in the same language.
Wouldn’t speaking different languages like that interfere with an investigation? Do these men fear nothing at all?
The cop on top of me rolls his eyes and gets up off the floor, pressing into my chest for leverage. I’m certain there will be a gigantic bruise there in the morning. I’ll be lucky if that’s all I walk away with.
Just as he’s about to step out of the room, I grab a heavy ceramic soap dish from the edge of the bathtub and throw it as hard as I can at the cop’s head.
I don’t even wait to assess the impact of my throw before I climb to my feet and sprint out the door. I shove him out of the way, and the combination of the blow to the head and the instability of my push is enough to send him to the floor.
The other cop is clearly just a grunt with no decision-making skills, which comes to my advantage as I run from the bathroom to the main living area where the front door is. I figure he’ll probably pull a gun when he breaks out of the shock of seeing me fight back, so I need to go as fast as possible by any means necessary.
But I could never be quick enough to outrun the sound of a gun firing.
The blast rips through my ears and sends a flash of white through my periphery before I fall back to the floor in a panic. I was so fucking close to making it out alive, and now I’m going to be reduced to a pathetic lily-white corpse on a hideous paisley carpet.
I wait for the pain to come – the inevitable burning.
But it never does.
