“So,” I say breathlessly. “You changed your mind. Will this be part of my punishment?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
His stubble grazes me across my shoulder blades, my skin immediately turning to goose bumps as he places his lips against the curve of my neck. Slowly, his hands travel from mine down my arms until they’re hovering just above my breasts. I want him to touch me. I want him to touch me so badly. I arch my back pressing my breasts upward, catching my breath in my throat, waiting for him to gently slide his palms downward, following the swell of my body.
However, when he does move his hands down, it’s not gently. He takes hold of my breasts, grabbing with rigid, calloused fingers, and then he squeezes so hard I’m momentarily blinded by the pain.
“Ahhhh! What…what the fuck? No! Stop!” For a second, through my confusion, I think that this is the real punishment Rebel was talking about and I am frightened. Very, very frightened. And then it hits me. There’s no way Rebel would ever handle my body like that. Like he hates it and he wants to hurt it. I may not have been with him for years and years, I may not know what his favorite color is, or what all of his childhood stories are, but I know he would never do that to me. Never in a million years.
Which means…
Terror is a living, breathing thing, snaking its way through my insides.
Oh, god, no…
Oh, god, no.
My whole body locks up tight when I hear the sound of very familiar, very evil laughter in my ear. “Oh, I knew you would have such a pretty little cunt. I knew you would love me pinching your perfect titties like this.”
Raphael.
Raphael is here, with his hands on me, touching me. Hurting me. I try to drag in a breath but it’s impossible. My ribcage feels like it’s in a vise and I’m never going to wriggle free. My brain eventually connects my difficulty to breathe with the fact that Raphael has wound one of his arms around my chest and is squeezing tightly.
The next three seconds are a blur. I tear the t-shirt away from my head, which leaves me completely naked. Better naked than blind, though. I thrust my elbows backward, slamming them into Raphael’s body, contacting with his side and his arm. He doesn’t let go, though. If anything, his grip grows even tighter.
“GET THE FUCK OFF ME! LET ME GO!”
“I won’t be letting you go, princess. Not this time. This time you’re mine. Struggle, bitch. Fight me. Come on…make me believe it.” I can’t see his face but I can hear the sneer in his voice. He’s loving the fight almost as much as he hates me. Because he does. He despises me. He’s the sort of man who hates all women, purely because of their sex. I know nothing I say is going to get me out of this situation. I’m going to have to fight my way out of it, and I’m going to have to be smart about it, too.
I’m gripped by panic and fear, but somehow my brain is still working. Through everything that’s happening, feeling trapped and ultimately terrified, I manage to form one coherent thought: stop giving him what he wants.
I fall limp in his arms.
“Que—?” He’s shocked at my response. Me deciding to play possum was the last thing he must have expected. I’m sure he knows that’s exactly what I’m doing too, but now he has to do something with me. He has to put me down or spin me around or…or something. I know it, and he knows it, too.
“You think you’re so smart, huh, Puta. So fucking smart. You always think you’re one step ahead of me. Well, you’re not.” I realize he’s right when he quickly shifts his hold and wraps one of his arms around my neck, applying pressure. Fuck. He’s going to try and choke me out.
“Don’t worry, princess. You’ll be asleep soon. I’ll have so much fun with you while you’re sleeping. And when you wake up, you’ll be all tied up and begging me to knock you out again. Won’t you? Won’t you, you little fucking slut.” He braces his muscles, tightening everything as he pulls back, applying even more pressure against my windpipe. My head is already spinning. Pinpricks of light dance in my vision, floating around like drunken flies. My arms feel weak; they feel them as I scramble at his arms, trying to prise them free.
That’s not going to work. Too weak. Too dizzy. No strength. Can’t…
I reach further back, fingernails clawing at the ripped material of his shirt, searching for…searching for god knows what. My heels hammer against the floorboards as Raphael lifts me higher, putting even more pressure on my neck. I have seconds. Mere seconds to get out of this, or it will all be over. I will pass out, and I will never want to wake up again, knowing what he will have done to me while I am out cold. My fingers suddenly hit something fleshy, something soft. His face.
I keep scrambling, scratching, trying to claw at him, but it’s not working. It’s not working. Raphael starts to laugh again—a maniacal cackle that sounds unhinged. I’m on the verge of losing consciousness, but the madness in that laughter gives me the strength for one last push. One last grapple at his skin.
I feel something wet and moist underneath my fingertip, and I know this is it, my final chance. Raphael tries to swing his head around, to move away from my hand, but I butt my own head backward, cracking my skull against what feels like his nose, and then my index finger is digging into that soft area of flesh I touched a second ago.
Not bone. Not cheek. Not chin. No. My finger is digging right into his eyeball, and Raphael is screaming.
I know I’ve done some serious damage when he drops me like a hot coal and clutches both hands to his face. The world is suddenly in Technicolor; my head feels like it’s splitting apart from the brightness and loudness of it. Blood thumps through my veins, charging full tilt as I try and crawl away from him.
“PERRA DE MIERDA!” Raphael stumbles into the wall next to him and then punches it, leaving a smear of blood on the plasterwork. I can’t tell if it’s from the action of actually hitting the wall or if it’s from his eye. A river of blood runs down his face, and his left eyelid is swollen shut, puffy and oozing fluid. With only one eye open, he sees me on the floor and lets out a howl that chills me to my very core.
I should have moved quicker. I should have been on my feet and running as soon as he let me go. I couldn’t breathe, though. I could barely see straight myself.
He falls on me, grabbing hold of my ankle and dragging me across the room toward the bed. “You should not have done that, you fucking psycho,” he growls. “Are you a good catholic girl, princess? Are you?” He slaps me hard across the face, landing the blow across my ear. A high pitch whine buzzes through my head. When the sound dies down, Raphael is screaming obscenities at me, shoving his face in mine, spitting everywhere.
“I’m going to make you wish you’d never been born. I’m going fuck you raw. I’m going to make you hurt. You’ve brought this on yourself.” He hits me again, snapping my head around with the force of his blow. With his right hand he presses my head down into the floorboards so hard I can feel the skin above my eyebrow splitting open. It feels like my skull is about to crack open. With his other hand, Raphael begins to fumble with the belt around his waist. It doesn’t take much to imagine what’s coming next. I screw my eyes shut, trying to think, trying to figure this out. Trying to find a way out of this. It’s when I open my eyes, the sound of Raphael’s fly unzipping snapping me back to reality, that I see my salvation, though.
I don’t have long.
I reach under the bed.
I stretch.
I stretch so hard it feels like my shoulder is about to dislocate.
I close my fingers around cold metal.
And then I’m twisting as best I can with my head being pressed into the floor, and I’m stabbing and I’m stabbing and I’m stabbing.