“I can’t take it anymore!” I heave, debilitating shudders racking my body. “Please. Mercy.”
“Mercy?” he mocks, a scowl darkening his features. “Sam had mercy, but Sandman is a fucking animal.”
He’s exceptionally methodical in his mental terrorism of me. I feel insane, emotionally drained, and mindfucked to the point of no return.
“Here,” Sandman says, holding out the gun to me. “Take it.”
“W-what?”
This could be a trick. I touch that gun, and who knows what he’ll do.
“This is your chance to get rid of me,” Sandman explains. “Just aim at my heart and shoot.”
“No,” I weep, embracing myself in a tight hug. “I can’t.”
“Take it!” he bellows, shoving the gun into my hand. “Or I’ll splatter your brain all over this goddamn kitchen!”
I wrap my fingers around the handle and level the muzzle at his chest. “Don’t make me do this.”
Despite everything he’s done, I can’t kill him. He’s still Sam deep down inside. Still the abused boy who sought sanctuary in my tree house on that rainy night. My best friend. My protector.
“Pull the fucking trigger, Zilphia!”
I let the gun slip from my fingers. “I can’t.”
He tilts his head, studying me like an insect under a microscope before picking it up and aiming the barrel at my forehead again. “Now you die.”
I clamp my eyes shut and hold my breath, bracing for the end.
The click of the gun pounds through my ears. Empty. I sag against the refrigerator, lightheaded from the adrenaline racing through my bloodstream.
“No bullets.” Sandman opens the cylinder for me to see. “Did you really think I’d give you a loaded weapon to fire at me?” He tsks under his breath. “You disobeyed me and now you have to pay.”
“I’m not a murderer like you!” I cry out, exhausted from his mind games. “You need psychiatric help!”
“Making you bleed is my therapy.” Sandman grasps my chin and lifts my face toward his. “Run.” His eyes bore into mine. “I’ll give you a five-second head start. You make it out the front door before I catch you, and you’re free to go, but if you—”
I bolt out of the kitchen, running as fast as my feet will carry me. Sandman doesn’t wait the five seconds he promised. I hear his pounding footsteps right behind me, but I’m too afraid to look back. With no time to spare, I dart up the staircase instead of making a play for the front door.
“Where you going?” Sandman jeers. “There’s nowhere for you to run.”
I choke down the raw fear clogging my throat, and it settles heavily in my belly. A window is my only chance of escaping. I just need to get to a bedroom. I reach the landing and my heart drops.
Every door in sight is closed. Any one of them could be locked or lead to a linen closet. I’m caught in either case. My head is violently yanked back, then I’m on the floor, gasping for air. Sandman looms above me, several passion twists clenched in his fist. He drags me into a bedroom and flings me onto the bed.
“No!” I yell, frantically kicking out at him.
He seizes my ankles and flips me onto my stomach, then his full weight crashes down on me.
“I’m going to fuck this tight little ass hard and fast all night long,” he rasps, pinning my arms above my head with one hand. “There will be no sleep for you.”
“Please don’t.” I weep into the pillow. “I’m so sore.”
I need to heal. Day after day he brutalizes my body, never allowing me a moment’s respite.
“No rest for the wicked,” Sandman whispers in my ear.
I hear the clank of his belt buckle and the hiss of his zipper, then he’s driving into me with battering-ram force. He brings his threat to fruition, relentlessly jackhammering in and out of my rear passage.
