Rated R for Violence
Prescription: marriage.
Dose: one per lifetime until death do us part, perhaps more if the patient is very picky, rich, famous, or otherwise entitled.
Prescribed by: society, your mother, your future mother-in-law, every cousin...
The hiss of steam erupted, as loud as gunfire in her ears and the blood roaring through her veins, the pulse that pounded in her chest.
She stared at her husband, his gun on the carpet. Time seemed to slow, narrowing to a pinpointed moment.
His face crumpled when she swung the iron at him and became a rictus of agony when metal pressed against his skin through his clothes. Kneeling over him, she kept her hand on the iron, fingers white-knuckling the handle as he tried to scuttle backwards. His brown eyes widened, clutching the first wound, but she kept going.
She kept burning him, watching as the heated metal ate him alive, lit all of his nerves up in a blaze of pain. Every scream rang in her ears, and she knew she would remember this moment forever. He flung his hands up to protect his face, his back against the wall as he tried to kick her off.
He should have been able to do it. The man was a trained operative.
A trained operative whom she had caused to writhe in pain on the floor, back arching up, hands torn between guarding his body and shoving her away. He reached blindly for her neck, thumbs digging in, finding her carotid. She choked, slamming the iron down. It found purchase on his thigh, and she held it there for a searing moment before slamming it onto his bicep.
Wheezing, his grip loosened and his eyes flew open. His gaze was fixed on her, determined despite the pain that flushed his cheeks and dampened in his eyes, tore a shout from his throat. He was a mess of injuries, old scars and bullet wounds mixing with fresh burns and peeling skin and the smell...
Her stomach roiled and she staggered to her feet, dropping the iron. Seizing the ironing board, she didn't fight the vicious smile creeping across her face. Then she made her final mistake, kicking out her foot to land a blow where it would hurt the most.
He grabbed her foot despite the excruciation she'd put him through. He still latched onto her ankle, her calf, and each of her grunts as she struggled to release his hold was mingled with his groans of pain. She couldn't imagine how it felt to be burned alive.
But she was pretty sure it didn't feel good.
A pounding came on the hotel room door. She kept her balance, hanging onto the wall, and struck at one of his burn wounds. He made a noise that was guttural and inhuman, attaching to some primal part of her that was all animal, too. It only made him more determined to bring her down with him.
"This is the Maryland Police Department! Open up!" More knocking.
He dropped her. She stumbled back against the wall, chest heaving, and unplugged the iron, shoving it into place in the closet. Straightening up, she turned around and opened the door.
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