Lois was staring at herself in the mirror. One side of her face was swollen and a mixture of black, red, and purple. There was blood crusted in the corner of her mouth and her chin. Her sports bra was sprinkled with spots of crimson from where it dripped from her chin. She was covered with sweat, her garments soaked through, and her head swam at odd intervals. One moment, she was sitting there, looking at herself in the mirror, the next; she was trying desperately not to vomit.
It had been at least fifteen minutes since Jeremiah had left the room. In that time, Lois had sat there in silence. She didn't scream. She didn't cry out for help. She didn't curse or shout her plans for revenge.
She just sat and looked at herself in the mirror.
Thinking. Planning. Plotting.
And so far, she had nothing.
The straps on her wrists, legs, and across her chest were heavy leather; a quarter-inch thick, and an inch and a half wide. It would take her three minutes to cut through it with a razor blade. Not that she had one. But the idea floated through her mind.
She thought of kicking over one of the floor lights, hoping that if it fell at just the right angle, the bulb would break and cover her with shards of broken glass; one of which she may be able to reach with her bound hands and use to cut through the strap. It was a good plan, if not a little far-fetched, Lois would have tried, if her feet weren't bound to the chair.
She thought of using her own manicured nails to saw through the thick material, but quickly abandoned that plan when the nail on her fore finger snapped before she left so much as a scratch.
She tested the restraints for the umpteenth time, pulling at them with her hands, leaning as far forward as she could, and trying to tear her legs away from the straps on her ankles. The strap across her chest was placed over her breast and under her arms. The buckle was under and a little to the right of her armpit; it dug into her side and back as she leaned forward. Since it was over her bosom, and not under, it allowed for a lot less movement. The straps on her ankles were equally tight and uncomfortable. In fact, Lois had to repeatedly clinch and flex her toes as her feet went numb from lack of circulation. She couldn't feel anything buy the warm, course material against her skin and concluded the buckles were either apart of the chair, or behind the legs.
The straps on her wrists gave her the faintest sliver of hope.
Her right hand had been bound flat against the arm of the chair, the palm facing down. The strap was tight and secure and offered very little movement. Like her feet, her right hand had gone numb numerous times, and she had to ball her hand into fist to get the blood pumping again.
Her left hand was a slightly different story. There, the strap had been applied while her wrist was on its side, the palm of her left hand facing inward. While the strap was applied tightly, she could twist her wrist slightly, rotate it forty-five degrees, and had a small amount of play between her skin and the strap. She could even maneuver her arm a half inch forward and backward; stopping just below her forearm, and just below the mound of flesh, bone, and muscle tendon where the thumb met the wrist.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
And so for, that was all she had.
She had been slowly trying to wiggle her hand out of the restraint for the better part of ten minutes. The skin was already red and chaffed and even started to bruise. Her entire left arm was a slow, steady ache. She twisted her wrist and pushed and pulled her arm forward and back. She hoped that with a little time and a lot of luck, she could warp the leather, or, at worst, sand away enough layers of skin to allow her room to slide her hand free.
But time was something she didn't have. And she realized, looking at her reflection in what she could only imagine was a two way mirror, that Jeremiah would see her; and before she could free herself of the other straps, he would be in the room to tie her back down, this time more securely; or even worse, send another few hundred jolts into her through the chair, making escape a mute point.
She cursed inside her head.
"C'mon Lane!" she thought. "Think, damnit! There's got to be a way out of this! What would Clark do?" And the moment she thought his name, she wished she hadn't. A flood of emotions hit her like a physical thing. The thought of her husband; earths greatest champion, the most powerful being in the planet; his bright crystal blue eyes, his raven dark hair, his perfect skin, beautiful smile, the scent of his skin, the warmth of his body, the feel of his powerful arms…
And how she might never be able to be with him again.
And again, she began to cry.
Despair, hope, anger, love, frustration, rage, regret…
The emotions swam through her like a pinwheel; with one standing out more that all the others.
Determination.
She pulled at the restraints again, her every muscle straining.
"I will not die here!" she screamed in her mind. "I will not be a victim! I. Am. Not. Helpless!"
And as she pulled and pulled and pulled; as her muscles ached, and as fatigue began to take its toll, something happened that even Lois didn't expect.
The lights went out.