I burst through the door, not stopping to think as I slam the door of the bathroom closed. I'm back in my little cocoon. Why have I come back here? What on earth am I doing back in the lair of the one that's going to kill me?
But right now, I don't care. All my senses are in overdrive. I'm defiled. Tarnished. Broken.
Leaning over the sink, I empty the contents of my stomach into it. There isn't much to come up, to be honest. I never did get that drink I ventured out for, and I haven't eaten in days. The dry heaves wrack my body, reminding me of the scum that I've become. All I'm good for is what he wanted from me. I wasn't strong enough to fight for myself. I had to let Mark go and fight my battle for me. How weak am I going to look to him now?
As the convulsions subside, I look up at the hollow reflection in the mirror. I don't recognise the girl staring back. Her eyes just look like holes in her head. Her mouth is open, gasping for air, but there's nothing special about it. Her lips are chapped with the acidity of the bile that spilled over them. And her skin is an unhealthy shade of grey, clammy with the sweat that pumps out of her pores. And her hair...
It has to go.
I throw the door back open, beelining straight into the kitchen. Pulling the drawer so violently. it makes a loud crack when it reaches its limit. But that doesn't bother me in the slightest. I just want to get rid of the thing that the man wanted so much. The thing that distinguishes man from woman. My shield for the majority of my life. Shattered at the hands of a woman.
Scissors. Never has such a common household utensil been so perfect. The blades will serve a good purpose.
Twisting a large chunk of my hair into my fists, I pull it roughly. The twinge in my scalp as some parts of it are ripped out doesn't bother me in the slightest. Nothing hurts more than the bitter realisation of what it is I am. Well, that ends now. I won't be a 'tease' to his kind any more.
I don't even flinch as I slice through the tangled mess. Dropping the strands to the floor, I waste no time in grabbing another bunch, resigning it to the fate of its predecessor. As my head becomes lighter and lighter, I expect to feel better. But I don't. The feeling is, in fact, getting worse and worse. I growl with anger, ripping more and more out of my head. But it doesn't stop. This feeling doesn't stop...
I scream, bunching up what remains on my head into my hands. The scissors fall to my feet as I shove my body back against the wall. Again and again, I lurch backwards, desperate to crack open my skin and bleed out all the pain. But it isn't working. I can't get rid of this feeling. The feeling of hopelessness and despair.
One more crack against the wall, and I can't take any more. My head falls back, staring up at the ceiling as I slide down to the floor. I'm a mess. I'm a failure. No wonder no one can help me.
The hot tears spill over my cheeks, my chest convulsing with the sobs that escape. I couldn't fight back. I couldn't fight back. I couldn't fight back...
“Alex?”
I close my eyes at his voice. That thick Irish accent burning a hole in my brain. A hole that is guaranteed to cause me agony. Here it comes. My final hour.
I hear his footsteps echo through the empty flat. A predator stalking his prey. I have no strength to run. No strength to fight. All I can do is sit and wait for death to come at the hands of Mark Sheehan.
Finally, I hear his shoes thud against the tiles of the kitchen floor. A final burst of fear grips my heart as he makes his way around to look at me. Goodbye world...
“What the fuck?!”
I drop my head, covering it with my arms. The only form of protection I can muster for the upcoming blows. I hope it doesn't hurt too much...
