I take a step toward the window and reach for the curtain when, suddenly, the bedroom door slams shut. The bang pierces my eardrums like a nail in a coffin, casting me into darkness.
When I spin around, the pitch-black silhouette of a tall figure grows larger and larger as it closes the space between us. Before I can move, the figure slams into my chest. He grabs me around the waist and throws me onto the bed so violently, the frame sounds like it’ll crack in two.
It all happens in an instant, but it feels like time is slowing down. I land on my side, bouncing on the mattress only once before flipping over and trying to leap off the bed. I only get to the edge before he grabs my calf. My fingertips burn as they zip down the comforter as he jerks me back down the bed. Catching my breath, the screams finally explode from my lungs as I swing my arms and try to grab the headboard, but only succeed in sweeping the lamp and books off the nightstand with a crash.
I try to scramble away, but he jerks my leg and I’m flat on my stomach again. He grabs the back of my bicep, fingers digging into my flesh, and violently flips me onto my back. He’s a black shadow filling my entire field of vision, the hood of his sweatshirt obscuring his face until it’s nothing but a black void with no discernable features. It smells of musty cotton, like it’s been wadded up in a garage and forgotten for months.
He plants his knees on either side of my hips, sinking down on top of me and pressing me into the mattress. I thrust my hips into the air, bending my knees and digging my heels in while flexing my back and glutes as hard as I can.
As long as I can move, I still have a chance.
My upper body strength is shit compared to his, but my legs and back are strong. Even though I’m smaller, I’m holding nearly all his body weight on my hips. But it doesn’t last. He wraps his arm around my torso and jerks me up into the air. My feet slip out from under me and I land with a bounce onto my back, the full weight of his body sinking on top of me. He knows how to fight, and I don’t.
I don’t know what I’m screaming—words, obscenities, gibberish? Whatever it is, it comes bursting out of me with every ounce of air I have.
Where is Bowen? He should be arriving at any moment. If I can keep fighting, keep whatever is going to happen from happening just long enough, Bowen will come home and I’ll be OK.
Bowen will kill him.
I manage to flail and twist my body enough to turn over on my stomach, but the bed might as well be quicksand. With nothing to grab onto except a loose blanket and sheets, he grabs my waist and easily drags me back across the mattress, my shirt rolling up to my chest as I go. He plants his knees on either side of my hips again and, this time, pin my legs to the mattress with his shins. He catches one of my wrists as my arms flail and twists it behind my back. It’s not long before he grabs the other one.
I’m stuck. I can’t move.
Everything goes still, and the only sounds are my wheezy shrieks and Waylon barking outside the door. He hasn’t said a word or made a sound the entire time. He’s like a ghost with infinite energy.
After a few eerily quiet moments, he slowly adjusts his grip, squeezing my wrists with one hand to free up the other. His body shifts to one side and then he leans forward and reaches over my head. My eyes adjust to the darkness enough to see him gently lay a black handgun on the bed about a foot from my nose.
My entire body shakes, my head trembling as his arm retracts out of view. A moment later I feel his palm on my sweaty skin, slowly running down the center of my exposed back. He pauses at the waistband of my shorts before he lifts his hand and I hear the familiar jingle of a belt buckle and zip of the leather as he pulls it through his belt loops.
The sound unleashes a torrent of panic in me and I start fighting again and struggling against his iron grip.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no…I would rather die.
All I see is the stark silhouette of the gun laying on the white bedspread, right in front of my face. And, out of nowhere, Colson’s voice pops into my head.
“Stop pretending this wasn’t the inevitable outcome…”
Was all of this a massive trick—an elaborate game? Revenge for something I have nothing to do with? My heart sinks as his words repeat over and over, until I feel his hand on the back of my head as he twists my hair around his fist. Pressing my cheek into the mattress, he releases my wrists and reaches over me for the gun, letting my sore arms fall to my sides.
“Why are you doing this?” If I can’t fight Colson, I can at least talk to him, “You don’t have to do this,” my voice cracks as hot tears begin flowing down my cheeks.
Where is Bowen? He could be anywhere. En route could mean 15 minutes away or an hour and 15 minutes away, depending on the day.
His weight shifts again and he scoots down my legs, keeping them pinned under his shins. Then, slowly, he nudges one of my knees aside with his, and then the other, until he’s kneeling between them spreading them wide, too wide for me to move. Lodged between his fist on my head and his knees against my thighs, my heartrate skyrockets again and I start shaking uncontrollably.
“I never did anything to you,” I sob into the bedspread, “I never hurt you!”
I flinch at the sharp chill of the gun barrel on the back of my knee and freeze when I feel it sliding up my thigh. My words turn to wails of despair and my gasps burn my lungs as I start to hyperventilate. The gun moves higher until I feel the metal against the thin strip of my shorts between my legs.
He slides it up the nylon at a glacial pace, and then back down again as tears and snot run down my face onto the bedspread. I thought him pointing his gun between my eyes and then shoving it down my throat years ago was bad, but I never could’ve imagined him doing this.
Finally, he slips the tip of the barrel beneath my thin cotton underwear and I feel the cold metal against the softest part of me. I let out a scream that burns my chest, but he doesn’t care. He only presses my head harder into the mattress and resumes dragging the barrel up and down through my slit, teasing my entrance but not going any further. My muscles burn and my body is fatigued, running off of pure adrenaline as I cry out to him for any response whatsoever.
Finally, he lifts the gun and his weight shifts again. I don’t know where it is, but it’s not in his hand anymore. He shoves his arm under my stomach and jerks my ass up until I feel it hit his jeans. Then he jerks my head, my scalp burning as he pulls me up on all fours. Once my arms go rigid beneath me, he loosens his grip and I open my eyes.
I’m staring at myself, looking straight ahead into the vanity mirror. In the dim light, I can see his demonic black silhouette kneeling behind me, his face still obscured and unrecognizable. He can’t even show his face. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath and his body sways ever so slightly behind me, looking like a night rider, one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse saddling a cursed woman rather than a steed.
A second later, his arm flies up and there’s a smack followed by an intense sting radiating over my ass. He smacks me so hard that it throws my hips to the side, but then I feel another as his arm jerks back and he smacks the other side with even more ferocity. My screams feel like fire emanating from my throat and as I gasp for breath, I feel him rocking back and forth against my ass. When I look in the mirror, he’s gently grinding against me, giving a coy tilt of his head.
He's still toying with me.
“Fuck you, Colson!” I manage to bite out between choked, wet gasps, “Fuck you!”
At that, he stills for a moment and then reaches behind his back. When I hear the click, my heart nearly stops, and then I see a knife clutched in his hand.
I try to move my head, but he holds it firm, jerking my hair upward and straightening my neck. He keeps pulling until my hair is taught and my head is facing forward. I’m forced to look on in horror as he raises the knife and carefully rests it between the hair tie and my scalp.
“No, no, no, no!” I start screaming as he presses the blade to my hair. In between my wails and gasps, I squeeze my eyes shut and manage one more coherent word before he starts carving me up for the last time.
“BOWEN!”
It takes a few moments before I realize he hasn’t moved and my hair is still attached to my scalp. I open my eyes, his fist still clutching my hair, holding my head straight out in front of him. He cocks his head and I hear a familiar, deep voice cut through the silence.
“Yeah, baby girl?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Colson
