After some time, the men step back, their sadistic fun finished, and they finally let go of her legs. Blaire gradually slides lifelessly off the edge of the snooker table like a floppy corpse, the vodka bottle still lodged deep inside her.
She collapses hard onto the floor on her back with a loud thump, her body folding unnaturally.
Lying there motionless with her hands torn open, her entire body carved with bloody slashes and one nipple missing, the three men stand over her, snickering and joking as they stare down at the wreckage they made.
“Fuck, what a fucking mess, she’s not even twitching anymore.”
“Should’ve seen her face when I cut her clit off. Thought she was gonna pass out right then.”
“Pathetic cunt. All that fighting for nothing.”
Before leaving, they finish with one last degrading act. They all take turns pissing on her limp, broken body. Hot streams of urine splashing across her face, in her open wounds, and between her legs, mixing with the blood and cum already covering her.
Then as one of them passes her—the same one who cut her earlier—he raises his boot and stamps down hard on her pelvis with all his weight.
The crunch of the glass bottle breaking inside her instantly reaches my ears, followed by the faint, splintered rasp leaving Blaire’s throat as sharp shards tear through her insides.
Her body folds in on itself before she falls onto her side, then goes still again. Fresh crimson begins to seep out from between her legs, gushing darker and thicker now.
The men laugh one last time, zip up their pants, and walk out of the snooker room without another glance at either of us.
I observe her for a long moment, letting the full image burn into me of her lying in a thick mess of blood, piss, cum, and broken glass.
After setting my empty glass down on the side table with a quiet clink, I push myself to my feet, and stride over slowly, my polished shoes stopping right at the edge of the mess.
Standing over her, I peer down at my wife, and she wheezes again, a rattling sound before her bloodshot tear-filled eyes gradually drag up to find mine.
Her wounded hand trembles as she lifts it toward me, crimson slipping steadily from the deep gash in her palm. Her fingers reach out, shaking, straining for mine like I’m still the man who might save her.
I blink once, blank and hollow, and before her fingertips can meet me, I step back, taking with it whatever last hope she was still clinging on to.
“Didn’t I warn you?” I say quietly. “When I’m finished, no one else will want you anyway, Blaire.”
Her hand falls into the spreading red with a wet slap, and I turn my back on her, walking out of the snooker room without looking back.
Two weeks later…
My sore eyes flutter open, the bright lights scorching so harshly I have to snap them shut again.
I can hear the sound of a heart monitor on my right.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Followed by footsteps and movement around me.
The first thing I feel is pain—deep, throbbing, and all-consuming agony radiating from between my legs, up through my abdomen like fire.
My throat is shredded and parched as a weak groan escapes me.
Squinting my eyes open, the first thing I notice is I’m in our bed, in the master bedroom. The familiar dark sheets, the heavy curtains, and the sickly faint scent of Law’s cologne lingering on the pillow beside me.
My hands are heavily bandaged, throbbing with every heartbeat, and there’s a thick dressing between my legs,drenched through. I can barely move without discomfort spreading through my core.
A nurse stands at the side of the bed, checking an IV bag with medical detachment. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t soften her face, she barely even looks at me.
“Oh, you’re awake,” she says coldly, like she’s announcing the weather.
I try to speak but my throat feels torn.
