Breaking Point Read Online Free PDF Page B

And how the fuck am I going to get you out, you bastard? How? The despair is so strong now. It feels like it’s flooding my brain, my thoughts, my soul. I’m caught, and it’s just not fair.
    Buzz.
    Okay, fuck it, let’s do it the hard way. First, get your hand resting on the pocket over your phone. That’s all you’ve got to do now, just that. Make a start. Now. I lift my arm and straight away the pain comes back, great and terrible and bloody. My teeth clamp together again; sweat pours out of my face, my eyes clench shut, all involuntarily, and I stop moving my hand. Breathe. Look again.
    My hand has made it to my thigh. Excellent. We’re cooking with gas. As the waves of pain subside (a bit), I realise I can feel just the shape of the phone through the back of my glove. All right. All fucking right. We’re doing this thing. Now, turn your hand over. Just do it, one tiny movement. Flip it over so your palm is down over the phone. Don’t fucking think. No time. Just do it.
    This one’s not so easy. It’s a rotation so I have to use the muscles in my whole arm, and muscles do not appreciate being made to work around fractured bones. They complain. Loudly.
    Sparko.
    The next thing I remember is the noise, cacophonous, which fades quickly, before being replaced by a pulse. Then a guitar and a voice. It’s Wolfmother, and better yet, it’s still ‘Vagabond.’ So I’ve only been out for a minute or so. That said, time's definitely awasting.
    Something’s different as I resurface this time. The physical discomfort is as acute as ever, but I somehow feel slightly dislocated from it - like I haven’t come back all the way this time. My mind grasps very quickly that I’ve blacked out, come to. My eyes open and, after a scary blurry second, focus back on my hand resting, palm down, over the phone in my pocket. Touchdown. Okay, next comes the squeeze. I know this part is going to be tricky, but the detachment helps. I feel the pain as I force my fingers to push into my leg, feel my lips draw back and my breathing go ragged. I do feel it, but, at the same time, it’s like it’s happening to someone else. I flick my gloved fingers upwards under the edge of the phone as hard as I can and, even behind the fresh stabbing, I register the feeling of the phone shooting up the inside of my pocket. I unscrew my eyes and look down. I can see the top third of my crappy little pebble flip-top peaking out the top of my jeans, and it’s just about the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Got you, you sexy bastard.
    Then the phone buzzes again, once, the feeble cry of a dying battery. The fucking Wolfmother guy howls in my ears as ‘Dimension’ starts. The album is on repeat. Clock’s ticking.
     
    CHAPTER 8
     
    The next part is, I think, going to be the hardest. I’ve got to get the phone out of my pocket and flip the fucker open. After that, the sailing should be relatively plain. I’ll have to chance the speakerphone, but the music is pretty loud, and the door is shut, and he should be upstairs, and anyway I’m out of options, so fuck it.
    The new feeling of distance continues to be an ally. I can still feel the woozy pulsing current of pain from my fractured arm; the sweat stinging my underarms and soaking my chest and face, the restricted breathing, all of it. But it’s like the signals are coming from the next room over. Not exactly out-of-body, but still, interesting. I think back to the shakes and wonder if this is some further permeation of the shock. I hope so. It’d be nice to think evolution didn’t totally fuck us when it came to situations like this.
    I grip the edges of the phone carefully, inexpertly, cursing the thickness of the gloves; any benefit I get from the reduction in trembling caused by the thick cloth is more than offset by a chronic lack of precision. That will make dialing fun, but one impossible thing at a time. Grip and pull. The pain is sharp, exquisite, and a little scary - but not in