Three attempts a psychol.., p.1
THREE ATTEMPTS: A PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER, page 1
THREE ATTEMPTS
Copyright © 2024. THREE ATTEMPTS by K.B. Gratz.
All rights reserved.
First Edition.
No part(s) of this book can be reproduced by any one or in any form, including electronic devices, without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, situations, or places are merely coincidental.
DISCLOSURE
This may be a difficult book for some to read. It includes violence, real life conditions, kidnapping, physical harm related to, but not limited to:
Amputations, at home surgeries, torture, suicide and death.
None of this is meant to be portrayed in a joking manner. This is serious content. These stories are purely fiction and are coincidences to any real-life people, places, or events.
“You can’t help them. They have to help themselves.”
-Jigsaw (Saw IV, 2007)
Prologue
Jaime (2013)
I can feel the pressure increasing. My perineum feels like it’s being ripped apart from the inside out. My legs are in stirrups, spreading everything open for examination. “Okay, I feel a contraction. Can I push?” I ask, tears forming in my lower lash line.
I watch the doctor examine me, checking for the baby’s head. “Yes, go ahead and start pushing. Push! Push! Push!”
I breathe in a chaotic rhythm, trying to expel this baby. I feel like I’m being burned, there is a searing kind of pain. “The head is out. Push hard in 1, 2, 3!”
I can feel the doctor breathing and pushing with me, like we are in sync. As soon as we finish pushing at the count of 10, my beautiful baby is placed on my stomach, covered in the nastiest white cheese I’ve ever seen. She cries with a few swipes of a towel, and I feel a sense of relief, and emotions. I feel tears welling in my eyes. “What’s her name?” The doctor asks, cutting her umbilical cord and swaddling her in a small baby blanket.
“Paislee.” I say, giving a genuine smile. I wish my mom were here, or really anyone for that matter.
“You did good kid.” The doctor praises, after pushing hard into my stomach. I read that they must do that a lot to make sure the uterus is where it needs to be and get the blood that’s stuck in there out. The praise makes me feel a little better about pushing a baby out of my vagina, all alone. I did this without my mom, the baby’s dad, everyone. I subside the feelings that have crept over me and I focus on the crying infant. I’m a mother now and she’s my main priority.
The doctor cleans up and exits the room with Paislee to do an assessment on her. I try to relax in bed and recover. I drift off to a peaceful sleep, listening to nothing but the hum of the overhead light, thinking about all the milestones I’ll get to watch her achieve.
****
I never thought that I would be in this situation. I came here to deliver my baby, my beautiful baby girl. Her cute little misshapen head, her red blotchy patches over her eyes, her small wrinkly hands. I’ve never felt so warm and whole in my whole life.
But now, I’m going to die. I’ll die perched in my small corner. I had gotten up to go relieve my bladder. When I stood up after a few steps, I felt a gush of liquid between my legs. At first, I thought I had peed myself, since that was common for me during pregnancy. But when I saw the dark crimson liquid run down my thighs, I knew I was in trouble.
I did a lot of research about pregnancy online. I’m only 15 so I obviously know nothing about having a baby. I know that bleeding after delivery is normal, until it isn’t. I can tell by the copious amounts that I’m in one of those critical situations.
“Help, someone help me!” I plead, stammering toward the corner where the bathroom’s located. I notice flow doesn’t cease, so I start to lower myself to the floor. I’m locked in here but surely; someone will hear me. I’m checked on a couple of times a day at a minimum.
This floor is so cold. I feel lightheaded and fuzzy, my vision blurry. I can hardly lift my head off the hard floor. I have puddles of blood beneath me. “Help!” I scream. I’m too far away from the door to bang on it. I’m too far away from everything.
I lay there in the same spot for hours. My voice is hoarse from the yelling. No one came to rescue me. The pool of blood has grown across the floor and is nearing my head. It’s starting to cake up and dry. I think I’m in shock. I think this is where it ends, where I die. Alone.
JOURNAL ENTRY
3-3-2021
I just finished my ninth therapy session and I feel like I’ve gotten nowhere. I have to do stupid telehealth visits because the offices around here are still closed from Covid. Today, my therapist recommended that I start keeping a journal. To me, it seems very middle school. He says that I have too many feelings built up, but honestly, I feel nothing at all; I have nothing to live for. I never see my parents, I have no girlfriend, no animals, no job and I’m sucking in school.
The therapist says that finding someone to spend my time with would be beneficial. He wants me to start dating, find someone, my person, someone who loves me so I can believe I’m even worthy of being loved. Easy for him to say, he’s every girl’s dream. Tall, shiny tousled hair. I guess despite my better judgment, I’m going to give this dating thing a shot, mostly because I don’t have anything to lose at this point and this dude won’t shut up until I try.
I’m going to give myself three attempts. If I can’t find someone to love me by the end, I’m killing myself.
I’ve had two girlfriends my entire life. Both were in high school. The first one cheated and then the second… I don’t even want to talk about her. But that’s when I started to realize how manipulative women really are. They make you feel so special, like you’re the only guy for them. They upgrade for someone who is physically better looking, to hell with emotional connection. Then they rip you to shreds and leave you high and dry; Leaving you to put pieces back together and rebuild your self-esteem. Or if you’re me, you just stay hopeless and depressed.
Despite my sour feelings towards women, it’s hard to try and put yourself out there when you look like I do. I’m skinny, I’m pale, I have my dad’s hairline, so I must keep my hair long and shaggy. It's an ugly shade of blonde. I’m definitely not someone girls approach in a bar. Girls usually go for large, muscular assholes. They treat men like me like absolute shit, but it’s okay when guys treat them like that. They are always too good for me or just a raging bitch to me, which is sad because I have nothing but love to give.
My parents split up several years ago, and I only see my dad on the holidays. Mom is always at work. She basically lives there. I feel like they don’t love me either. I feel unlovable.
I guess we shall see how this goes.
3 attempts remaining...
Chapter One
Natalie (2023)
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The alarm clock is blaring from the bedside table: 4:30 A.M. I smack at the snooze button only for it to alarm 10 minutes later, ruining my state of contentment.
Fancy crawls out from under the covers and licks my chin, telling me it’s time for our morning ritual. I turn off the alarm and slowly make my way out of bed, pausing to stretch. I slip on my house shoes and head into the bathroom. Our morning ritual consists of getting ready, chugging a protein shake and then going for a walk.
I peer into the mirror hovering over my marble countertop and sink. My short black hair is a tangled mess on my head. I grab the brush from the drawer, applying gel and slicking it back. Thankfully, it’s long enough for a small ponytail. I wrap the elastic around my hair and then brush my teeth. I take another look in the mirror. I’ve gained some weight this semester, maybe I need to start running. I find my blue athletic set and slip it on before sliding on my tennis shoes and heading to the kitchen. I rush, putting together a vanilla flavored shake, and head out the door; Fancy trailing closely behind on her pink leash.
We live in the first tall dormitory building on campus. I’m here for a scholarship, which includes housing. I received a scholarship for singing. I was lead in all the school plays my junior and senior year. I have the “voice of an angel,” or so I’ve been told. Fancy and I had been here the last two years. Fancy being my service dog, she’s allowed. I don’t think I would have taken the offer if she couldn’t be here with me.
I like being the first building because it’s easier to get across the street to the park, which is our favorite spot.
We start on our walk on the paved path. It’s usually pretty quiet out here. I don’t bother putting in headphones, I like listening to the birds in the mornings, chirping and singing. It’s typical for us to walk 3 laps, which is 2 miles. We trudge along the path, pausing a couple of times for Fancy to relieve herself. We make it about a mile before she stops, and I hear her growl. I look around her, seeing nothing and assuming she must hear a squirrel or a bird in a tree. “Fancy, stop it. You are going to wake people up!” I scolded her. I continue to walk, nearly dragging her on the leash.
A few moments pass and she is still growling. “Fancy!” I snap, “Stop-”
I’m cut off by someone holding a rough, smelly wash cloth to my mouth and nose. Arms wrap around me, bracing my fall as I grow weak. There is a putrid smell in that cloth. My mind goes fuzzy and Fancy barking is the last thing I hear as I lose consciousness.
****
I cannot feel my face. My throat is burning. With every swallow, it feels like razor blades are trailing down my esophagus. I
I don’t know how long I’ve been here, or where I am. The silence here is thick. I’m face down on a cold surface that feels like a concrete floor. I run my hand around and feel a warm wetness coat my fingers. Fresh blood? Moving my hand to my face, I feel my swollen eyes and cuts to my forehead and cheeks. I ran my hand higher, feeling nothing but stubble where my shoulder length hair was rooted.
Did someone shave my head?
There is absolutely no light in here, or maybe there is, and I can’t open my eyes wide enough to see it. I feel weak but I try to brace my hands under my torso, pushing upwards to no avail. I try to scream, to whimper, anything. No noise breaks free from my mouth. I hear a pop and static, like an overhead speaker is turning on. I try harder to open my eyes, just a sliver of light beaming through my puffy lids.
What the hell is this place?
“Hi, Natalie,” a distorted voice comes from overhead. “Welcome to my little playhouse.” I can’t place the voice to the person, but maybe that’s the point. Who the fuck would do this to someone? I look to the ceiling, trying to identify the source of the sound. I see a small speaker embedded in the ceiling right in front of the door. I open my mouth again to scream.
“Seems like you are missing something. Your voice? Yes,” they hiss, “that is because I’ve removed your tongue and went ahead and severed your vocal cords, just to be safe. It will be hard to scream for help now.” Hot tears sting my cheeks and wounds. They cut out my tongue; this is a literal nightmare. How did they know I was about to try to scream? Are there cameras? I start to weep, silently, hoping this is a horrible dream I’ll wake up from.
The voice continues, “I can’t give away too much right now while we wait for the others. But I can tell you this. If you think you are brave enough,” the voice says with a faint chuckle, “you can try to escape. If you do make your way out of here, you’re free forever.” Click, the voice stops, assuming whoever it is has turned it off; They are done talking to me.
What if I don’t? I wonder. What do they mean if I’m brave enough? Am I stuck here forever? Will I die here? NO! I must get out of here. Fists slamming to the cold, hard floor, I open my mouth again, straining, trying to yell for help, desperate for the smallest whimper to escape my bloodied mouth.
I try to calm myself, looking around at my surroundings. There is a bucket in one corner and in the one opposite, a loaf of bread and a gallon of water; How generous considering I can’t eat. I gather enough strength and sit up, wincing at the pain to my rib cage that shoots through me like electricity.
There are no windows, no bed, no fan. There is a hot, pungent smell in here. Something died around here, maybe in the walls, or maybe it’s rotting flesh. A large metal door is mounted in front of me, its hinges and doorknob invisible. It looks like what I imagine the inside of a walk-in freezer to look like. Is it locked from the outside? After failing three times, I’m able to stand, bracing myself on the wall. I feel around, looking for anything. My phone, a weapon, a clue.
Nothing. I find nothing. I feel my clothing, patting any pockets. Nothing. Sobbing, I turn my back to the wall, sliding down the cold tile. I slam my fist into the wall repetitively, defeated.
Then I hear and feel a click. I rotate quickly, catching a section of tile protruding from the wall. My eyes widen with excitement. I crouch down examining. Sliding my fingers into the crack of the wall, I pull on the section. It’s a drawer, with a hole in the wall to see the next room over. Thank you, God! Maybe someone is there to help me; The voice did mention waiting for others.
I tug it onto the floor before I see a meaty, muscular organ in the compartment. I heave at the sight. I throw it into my bucket in the corner. Tears continue to coat my face. I take a minute to regroup myself, like I hadn’t just seen my tongue in a drawer.
I peer again through the hole. At first, I hesitated, opening my mouth, forgetting I can’t speak, not to mention the agonizing pain in my throat. I really don’t have a lot of options at this point, so I tap my hand through the small tunnel, trying to get someone’s attention. I receive no reply in return. Maybe someone is over there but sleeping. Why else would there be a space in the wall?
I leave the hole open, hoping that my saving grace may come from the other side of the shallow tunnel. For now, I’ll save my strength and rest. I don’t care if I die trying, but I will attempt to get out of here.
Chapter Two
Natalie (2023)
It feels like I’ve been here for weeks but in reality, I think it’s only been a day at most. I smell my own body odor and the smell of something rotting keeps seeping from under the door. The hunger is starting to cause a searing, agonizing pain deep in my stomach. I guess the last thing I had was my shake. What can I even eat without a tongue?
The voice hasn’t come overhead anymore. I still cannot figure out who it would have been or who would be behind this.
I hear a faint creak coming from the hallway. I stand, slowly approaching the door, trying not to make any noise. I press my ear to the cold metal, which feels wonderful against my wounds. I assume the creaking was a door because I can hear footsteps slowly approaching.
I stagger backwards, trying to stay upright. Is someone coming down here for me? To rescue me? Or to harm me? I can’t scream but do I miss my shot by staying silent? I slowly walk back toward the door, listening for the person on the other side. I hear creaking again; I raise my hand to beat on the door but then I hear a thud.
Startled, I look around, for any glimpse of what is going on outside of this room. I suddenly see a shadow carry through the room, from the gap in the wall. I creep over, slowly, careful not to be seen.
Just as I’m about to approach the opening, there is clanking outside my door. Shit. It sounds like someone is unlocking the door. I sit on the floor, awaiting the person to enter as the door swings open. But no one walks in. I wait for a moment. Is this a trap? I wait a moment and hear descending footsteps and the slam of an exterior door.
I gather myself onto my knees and crawl around the floor closing the distance between me and the door. I look around the corner, but I don’t see anyone.
I slowly stand. If no one is there, I’m going to make a run for it. The voice told me if I made it out, I would be free. I clear the door frame and look down both sides of the narrow hallways. The sight is repulsive. Blood lines the cracks in the floors, on the walls, smeared on my metal door. Did I do that? The appearance explains the smell, as chunks of something are mixed in with the crimson splatters. I don’t even want to know how all of that got there.
There are tall doors on both ends of the hallway. Trying not to take too much time, I decide to go left. I start to sprint as fast as I can, despite my broken ribs and aching feet. I’m coming upon the first door opened to my left. Is this where they were before my room? I’m so tempted to look, to see if anyone is there to help me, but I keep my stride forward, holding back the bile rising in my throat from the smell.
As I pass the door, I’m only a couple of yards from the exit. I question to myself if I’m in a building, as there are EXIT signs suspended from the ceiling, or a basement of some sort. I reach for the handle, then I feel two arms wrap around me. I kick my legs, dangling in the air. This person isn’t large, but they are strong. I’m pulled back into my room. My kicking, fighting, trying to scream is pointless.
I feel multiple blows to the head with something hard and wooden. I melt onto the floor, feeling a kick to my already piercing ribs. I cease fighting, it’s no use.
I watch the person depart and slam the door.
****
Waking up, I feel like I did that first day, sore, bloodied, broken. I couldn’t make it out. At least I was able to see the layout. At a quick glance, I noticed 2 rooms on my side of the hallway and 3 on the other. The closer I got to the exit; the smell of death grew. Something must be in that last room on the right. As curious as I am, I won’t be going in that room by my own will.
