No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

Nothing.
“Isn’t it funny, then?” His dense grip, his rotten voice.
“You were so certain you’d bury your mom, but it turns out
you had it backwards, you dumb cunt, because she’s going to
bury you—”
Darby bit down again, and the plastic ripped.
A pinprick of ice-cold air whistled inside. Racing down
her throat in a pressurized rush, like inhaling through a straw.
Ashley paused — “Oh” — and in a half-second of
confusion, his grip weakened and Darby’s shoes touched the
floor. A half-second was all she needed. She found her footing,
kicked off the tile, and hurled her body backwards into his.
Ashley stumbled, off-balance.
She kept running backward, kept pushing him—
He gasped: “Wait, wait, wait—”
She rammed him, back-first, into a sink. Vertebrae against
porcelain. The faucet clicked on. He grunted and released, her
arms twisting from his grip. Her hands finally free. She
grabbed the wet bag and ripped it off her face, sucking in a full
breath. An inverted scream, clogged with blood, snot, and
tears.
She saw color again. Air on her cheeks. Oxygen in her
blood. She fell away from him, her knees mushy, catching
herself on the floor with an outstretched palm. Cold tiles,
speckled with her blood.
Behind her, Ashley pulled something from his pocket.
He raised an arm—
* * *
—And he swung the rock-in-a-sock at the back of Darby’s
head, arcing the stone like a whipping bola, ready for the wetporcelain
crunch of the girl’s skull — but she was already
scrambling forward, moving away.