And in that second, I throw my head forward with every ounce of strength I have left.
My forehead connects with Virgil's nose.
There's a crunch, a spray of blood, and he stumbles backward, screaming.
"You fucking bitch!"
The syringe falls from his hand, hits the floor, shatters.
The drugs seep into the dirty wood, wasted.
I didn't get high. I didn't relapse. I won.
It's a small victory. A tiny one. And I know I'm going to pay for it.
But for one moment, I beat him.
The beating lasts a long time.
He doesn't use his fists at first.
He uses his words.
Tells me everything he's going to do to me.
Everything he's going to let his men do to me.
The buyers he's going to sell me to, the things they'll pay extra for.
Then he uses his fists.
I lose track of the blows.
My face, my ribs, my back.
He's careful not to hit my stomach—not out of mercy, but because he wants the baby alive.
Leverage, he said.
Something to keep my husband in line.
At some point, I stop screaming.
Stop begging. I just curl into myself and wait for it to be over.
And then it gets worse.
He dismisses his men.
Sends them outside to keep watch.
And when we're alone, when there's no one to witness what he's about to do, he crouches down beside me and speaks in a voice that's almost gentle.
"I was going to wait," he says. "Build up to it. Make you want it, the way you used to. But you ruined that, didn't you? So, now I'm just going to take what I'm owed."
I know what's coming.
I've known since the moment I woke up in that vehicle.
