It’s the first time I realize how off the rails she is.
But I don’t get to end that thought, because the next slap that hits my butt, and the pain it causes, is beyond anything I have ever felt. It wasn’t with her hand, but something hard. Very hard.
I scream.
And scream.
Tears flood my eyes with the muffled screams from the cloth in my mouth, and while it hurts like shit, I get wetter by the minute.
“Thatis how I feel,” she says and hits me again. “There is nothing but pain and emptiness in me, and I am unable to escape it.”
Smack.
I scream again.
“I scream, too,” she says. “But you don’t hear it, because I was silenced.”
Smack.
She doesn’t stop.
The pain, the desparation in her won’t let her.
I lie exhausted on the sheets when she is finally done. My butt burns as if I have sat on a hot stove, and all I want is for her to touch me. I want to feel her. I want to grasp her, hold her, fuck with her.
A loud metallic sound rips me from my state. A pan circles on the concrete floor, coming to rest.
With my last bit of power, I bring my elbows under my body, push my upper body just a bit, and turn my head.
She leans against a drawer, a bottle of whiskey in her hand, and a plate with cocaine on it next to her, right where the gun lies.
Her eyes are so hollow.
I push myself higher and sit?—
I groan in pain. But I do sit. I have to. I look at her. The woman who isn’t Amelie right now. The woman I know. She has lost touch with her, and maybe that’s exactly what draws me in.
We’re playing roles right now. I’m not me. She is not her.
My wrists might be tied, but I can grasp the buckle of the leather belt around my head and open it.
I pull the cloth out of my mouth.
She watches my every move, her eyes blank. She isn’t stopping me.
Next, I fumble open the rope around my ankles.
It’s not easy with the hands tied up, but after several minutes, it finally opens.
She just watches me.
Takes another gulp.
The rope falls to the ground.
“Stop,” she says.
But I don’t.
