The Trouble With Time by Lexi Revellian

the point where he was supposed to kill Scott. He and Scott together just might, with a lot of luck, have overpowered an armed Quinn, and he’d thrown away that chance. Almost any scenario he could think of would be better than this.
    If Quinn came back, he wanted to be untied, waiting for him, ready. He imagined punching him in the face, beating him up. The savage satisfaction of this thought made him set off with renewed zeal towards the stone slab in the deepening twilight. The white scuts of rabbits gleamed in the light of a full moon as they moved about close by; they seemed to know he was not in a position to pose a threat. The grass was alive with small black slugs inches from his nose, and it was getting difficult to see them. However, slugs were the least of his worries. He tried to ignore the pain: he could do this. He remembered his Krav Maga instructor tapping the side of his skull and saying, “It’s all in here. Believe you can do it, and you can.”
    Time was hard to judge, but Jace reckoned it took him about twenty minutes to reach the gravestone. Brambles lapping its base scratched his face and caught at his clothes. He had to rock himself over on to his other side and shuffle backwards, feeling with his fingers to line up the plastic holding his wrists and ankles together with the edge of the slab. He pulled off strands of ivy and bramble, then got hold of the spare wrist band to keep it out of the way as much as possible. At least Quinn hadn’t threaded both of them through, which would have given him twice the work. He paused for a breather, gathering his strength, then moved his hands up and down the few inches they would go, fretting the taut strap against the corner of the stone. He had hoped to do it fast enough for friction to melt the plastic, which would have been quick, but he couldn’t. He’d just have to wear it away.
    His arms were quickly screaming at him to rest, and every now and then the stone caught his knuckles and scraped skin off. It was difficult to exert much pressure, but the worst thing was that he couldn’t judge his progress – could neither see nor feel if the stone was having any effect at all on the plastic. His mouth was dry, his stomach empty, he hurt all over. He told himself it could have been worse; Quinn could have used metal handcuffs, and he’d have had zero hope of getting them off.
    Doggedly, Jace counted out loud; twenty rubs, pause, relax, three breaths and start again. He tried moving his feet for a bit to give his arms a rest, but this was more difficult to control and he went back to lifting his arms sideways, up and down, up and down. The air was cold and the sky had grown so dark Jace could see very little. The rabbits had gone. Some creature moved in the undergrowth, a cat, a rat or a fox. Then unmistakably, he heard the howl of a wolf not far off, and redoubled his efforts, now counting under his breath. Lying trussed on the ground while a pack of wolves ripped him to pieces was not something he wished to experience.
    The hours passed. Once or twice he nodded off, until the pain in his limbs woke him. When the night was darkest and the agony seemed too much to bear, tears ran down his face and death seemed inviting. Death not being an immediate option, he summoned the dregs of his resolution and carried on with the repetitive movement, trying to visualize the plastic as practically worn through, about to give way . . . he’d be a fool to give up when he was so nearly there.
    It was almost an anticlimax when it finally happened. Jace’s legs began to straighten behind him on their own, became painful in a new and different and very welcome way. Gradually he extended his body, flexing his spine, letting his sore muscles relax.
    He rolled on to his back and sat up against the gravestone, knees bent, so he could work on the band on his right wrist. This position was immeasurably more comfortable, and he could move his arms a greater distance and apply