Page 744 of Coal Hearts

How much pain ricocheted through my abused frame.

How Roland shot me with blue, and Ian with green, and the ballroom of men pummelled me with a vicious, violent rainbow.

Somehow, I didn’t move.

I could’ve run.

I wanted to goddamn run.

But if I moved a fucking step, Ily would replace me.

I’d have to watch her flawless skin transform with a million new bruises.

And I couldn’t do it.

And so, I stayed.

And I hurt.

Victor was the last to shoot me.

He stepped onto the stage, slipping in paint splashes, his black shoes treading garish colour wherever he went.

With a sick chuckle, he shot me right in the cock with a neon pink bullet.

I woke up in the beige and black room.

Dr Belford at my bedside and something cool and comforting between my throbbing legs. “He’s lost his damn mind,” she whispered, shooting me full of anti-inflammatories and another dose of her wonderful cocktail of peace and energy. “I’ve always suspected he was mentally unstable, but what he’s doing to you—” She cut herself off. Packed up her supplies. And left.

I faded.

I escaped into dreams where Ily was safe, and I was finally allowed to let death come for me.

It would be so easy to die.

So simple to enrage Victor enough to kill me.

But...Ily.

Peter.

Promises and hopes and—

So I stayed.

The next night, as I stood bare in front of the Masters—my entire body riddled in round blackened bruises—Victor said I looked a little peckish.

The Masters agreed and threw food at me. An avalanche of asparagus spears, potatoes, and succulent prawns. Some struck me in the face. Some bounced off my shoulders. Melted butter rolled down my chest in sticky rivers.

It was demeaning. Demoralising.

I burned with fucking fury to fight back.

But through it all, I felt her eyes on me.

Her love for me.

And I wanted to fucking cry.