I didn’t breathe for what felt like the most painful moment of my life—another moment too painful to handle.
“Which is it? Tick-tock, tick-tock.”
My arm reached forward, fingers shaking. The heat of the boiling pot—now on the flame-lit stove—tingled against my skin. Little bites from the steam left a red tinge on the underside of my arm.
My fingers clasped around the handle of the cleaver, and I lifted it from the hook with robotic movements.
“I’m almost disappointed,” the man told me, pressing a kiss into the roundness of my cheek.
I froze, blocking out the horrible sound of his raspy voice. I listened to the familiar voice blaring across the room.
“Not so tough right now, are you?” Ville laughed, a villainous and heinous sound.
Was he talking to me?My eyes moved around trying to find Woodrow but I couldn’t. The angle in which I faced, had him out of view.
Tufts spun us around again to face the commotion, just in time for me to watch Woodrow try and push himself up from the floor. But he didn’t make it up. Ville kicked his son in the ribs with a force strong enough to break multiple of them.
I shrieked, listening to the crack as it ripped through the air. Woodrow made less noise, still struggling to claim any air from the injuries he’d taken silently before I was turned around.
His throat had been hurt for the third time today. His skin was vandalized and his muscles were growing swollen, damaged from many punches I was grateful not to have witnessed.
His image pulled the tears from my eyes.
“Listen to your father, kid. Especially if you don’t want us playing with your toy.” I barely had time to take in what was happening, struggling to see through my wet eyes, when the creep holding me prisoner’s dirty fingers pushed the material of my clothes inside me, again.
Chapter 17
Jolie—aged eighteen
My heart hammered, pounding loud like a drum, blocking out the bloody pleas falling from Woodrow’s lips. Blocking out the pain behind his words.
And then everything stopped. The hand, due to in invade me at any second, pulled back. The man attached moved with it. He took a seat at the table, ignoring me like I wasn’t even in the room.
I glanced over as the cleaver struck the wood, piercing through the tablecloth’s thin material; blood splattered Woodrow’s face as he looked over, too. Shaking fingers pushed him from the ground, trembling knees almost buckled as he stared down at the wooden table from his full height.
Ville was cutting up the meat—cutting up Bonny, the cleaver dragging over the wood, guiding pieces away from the mass, so he could continue to do so.
Woodrow’s eyes closed and didn’t open for the longest time.
“Woodrow. . .” My whisper pulled him from the darkness of closed lids, and his feet brought him closer to me.
I ignored the conversation from the men at the table. Dirty chats of girls like me. . . girls, who had been ripped away from their families, by any means necessary. Girls, stolen and preened for selling.
My hands moved to a kitchen cloth on the table edge. I used it to wipe away the smear on Woodrow’s cheek. The bright red only faded to pink without the help of soap or water.
“Jolie,” Ville snapped impatiently, like he’d been waiting for my cooperation for hours. “Come get this meat.”
I shuffled to the table. “I have no idea how to cook rabbit,” I voiced, trying to find excuses not to become a literal bunny boiler.
“You learn by doing.” The blade of the cleaver blared down against the wood twice, giving me a warning.
I hung my head. “Let me get something to pick her up with.”
“Use your hands.”
I looked between Ville and Woodrow, who looked ready to vomit, and he would have by now, if he had any chance of getting the lumps past the swelling in his throat.
I picked up the bloody pieces, avoiding the ones with fur still attached.
