Peaches

Thirty Two

What do I do?

I need—

"Help."

He was squatted in front of me, huffing out pants of exhaustion. "You're too much. Too big."

The sound of my teeth chattering together nearly drowned out the sound of his evil voice. Something I don't believe I'll ever be free of. The thought made me tremble, aching to cry, to scream, and fight.

I tried.

"You are a mess. Aren't you?" He smiled down at me, touching his hand down to my cheek that was slick with warm wetness.

Blood?

Tears?

Why was he watching me like this?  Almost with an adoration? An obsession. He wanted to break me apart.

He always says he—

What will he do to me?

"Already so broken and bloody," he mused, darting his tongue out to lick at his tight lips. "So destructive. With nobody to listen."

My vision was doubled, trying hard to focus on those hate-filled eyes, muddy and evil. So close to me with such a tense hold. He had murder in his eyes. A desire to kill.

To kill me.

Was he going to kill me?

"Will you kill me?"

"Hush," he tapped at my face, cueing me to reopen my eyes. "Time for you to be in your room."

Where was Chris?

Where was anyone?

"Marcello," I whimpered as he dragged me through the doorway, pulling my arms until they popped and cracked under his control.

"Quiet. Listen to my words now," he dropped my arms down, leaving me to rest beside a pile of stained linens and rope. "Give me your hands."

My hands

What did he want with my hands?

How was he going to—

"Focus!" His hands clapped together loudly, snapping my eyes to attention.

Focus on him.

What was that sound?

That moaning?

"Lift your hands." Nodding his head slowly until I unintentionally began nodding with him, he was able to convince me to follow the command given.

Even when I was sure I didn't have the strength to do so.

I am sick.

"So good," he groaned, climbing over my legs to sit down on my bruised torso. Speaking in Spanish again, he voiced out his pleasure in tying my hands together with a slow grind to match his rolled words.