Recent memories, banished from my brain, returned with force. Memories of hands touching me, groping at my flesh while tears crawled to my eyes. Memories of Hell.
And I was in fucking hell now, but I wouldn’t tell him to stop. I’d save my words and my energy.
“Get the fuck off of her!” Woodrow spat out the words, somehow removing the dirty touch, keeping nothing but the bruises that would later form amongst the ones he already wore.
He rallied to me. I listened to his fast feet as they brought him closer. But I was too scared to turn around to see him.
Ville blocked his path, showinghim something that stopped him in his tracks.
“Now sit the fuck down, or you’ll be eating this raw.”
Ville held up something. I saw the shadow on the wall before the man with his touch on me, spun me around to see. . .
My eyes hovered over the ground, examining the trail of water droplets.
The organ in my chest pounded harder, feeling like it was slowing and racing at the same time, seeing what he held.
A lifeless bunny, dangling by her big and beautiful ears, her body wet and floppy, had water dropping to the floor, where Woodrow’s eyes lingered, not to see her. . .
Bonny.
Ville stomped his foot, hoping that Woodrow would scatter from the threat, but he didn’t budge.
The man behind me continued giving his hands directions to lands they shouldn’t travel. I cringed, slinking deeper into his hold as his dirty fingertips brushed my breast, right over the nipple.
“Don’t,” Woodrow said once more. I had no idea who he was talking to, his eyes moving quickly between my uncomfortable situation and his father, a fury igniting beneath his pastel pupils.
“Sit down, unless you want to be the one to slice this thing open.” Ville clicked his fingers three times, emphasizing his lack of patience and his desire for something to be placed in his waiting fingers. He held his hand out flat.
The man behind me whispered in my ear, “See the meat cleaver?”
My eyes darted back to the wall behind the oven, where all the big knives slept once tucked in for the night, dangling upside down like bats in a dark cave.
“Reach for it.”
I shook my head, no. “I won’t cook her. I won’t help you cut her up.”
“You sure about that, darlin’?” His fingers moved south, just like his accent. His rough skin snagging the thin material of my dress.
“Get your fucking hands off her!” Woodrow screamed, his voice tumbling on the last word, causing him pain.
A scuffle nudged me forward, closer to the blades, and I wanted nothing more than to reach for one, but not to dismember a passedaway pet. To instead, use it to cut off the fingers of the man who had no right using them to touch me.
“Grab it,” the man teased.
I still refused, silence as my answer.
“Ville tells me you like the twang, is that right? Will it get you wet for me like it does the kid?” his tongue smeared my cheek, a wet trail of tobacco-scented salvia left in its wake.
I cringed as his mustard-colored moustache scrubbed at my face, and the repugnance on my face as I pulled away, told him how much he disgusted me.
“Have you changed your mind yet?” He pushed two fingers against my sex, forcing the material of my underwear and dress inside me. . .
I jumped from my fucking skin for the third time in minutes, apparently getting under his in the process.
My struggle pissed him off, and he squeezed my breast until I winced, and pushed his fingers harder into my vagina.
“Last chance. Grab it. . . or I’ll grab one of the knives, and use it in place of my fingers.”
