Dani

I don’t know how long I’ve been out. When I come to, all I know is that I’m staring at the face of the devil himself. I also notice my hands are tied. My feet are free, but that doesn’t help me get the knife I have hidden under my jacket.

“We meet again, dear wife. You look pretty good for a dead woman.”

“It’s amazing what escaping life with a fucking asshole will do for you,” I answer. I get a kick to the stomach in thanks for my sarcasm. Since I’m expecting a lot more, I suck it up. “Nice to know you’re still the same bastard you’ve always been,” I grunt, because it’s hard to catch my breath.

“Aw, my Melinda, how I’ve missed you, but I don’t remember you being quite so outspoken before. It will be fun breaking you. I shall have to do it quick though, since you can’t live much longer. You see dear wife, I’m getting married next week.”

“My condolences to your fiancé.”

“Melinda, you sound almost…jealous,” he says, and he bends down to the floor where I’m sitting, bending down so his face is mere inches from mine. Inside, my heart is hammering, and I’m a nervous wreck. I’ve been afraid before. I was married to the devil himself, so I’ve been deep into fear. So deep, that my body felt frozen, but right now, I have to acknowledge that it’s over. I’m dying…. I’m dying tonight. Within that certainty, there is freedom. There’s nothing more that Michael can do to me than he doesn’t already have planned. He’s going to take it all from me. He’s going to kill me. So, when he bends his face down towards me, I look at him. I really look at him. He once had features a teenage girl found dashing and debonair. Now, they fall flat, and I only see the ugly. Eyes that once looked dark and mysterious are now hidden behind designer shades, and seriously, we’re in an old deserted building. The lighting in here sucks. Why on Earth would you wear sunglasses? I don’t need to see his eyes to know that they’re soulless.

“Jealous? You have to be kidding me,” I tell him, my stomach churning with the need to vomit.

“It’s okay Melinda, I can give you a pity fuck for old time’s sake,” he says, moving in. He grabs my hair and gathers it in a tight hold, pulling my face closer to him. His lips are so close to mine that I am enveloped by his sickening scent. “I do remember what a wild girl you are, maybe I’ll let Donald join in. One last hurrah before you die, this doesn’t have to be a completely unpleasant experience.”

It takes everything I am and everything I have inside of me, not to close my eyes and get lost in the nightmarish memories he triggers. Instead, I beat them back down and give Michael my best fuck-you look and spit in his face. His face goes stony hard, and I know I’m going to pay for that. I watch as he reaches into the pocket of his suit-coat and takes out a white handkerchief. He uses it to wipe off his face. Once that’s done, he takes his sunglasses off, carefully folds them and places them in his now empty suit-pocket. He then takes the handkerchief, and even though I try to scoot back to get away from him, he grabs me by my hair, jerks my head back hard, and slams it into the concrete wall behind me.

The pain from the blow radiates through my entire body. I feel like I’m in a tunnel, and I’m having trouble getting the room to come back into focus. There’s a roar in my ears and I’m doing the best I can to shake it off. Before I can, he’s stuffing the handkerchief into my mouth. I gag and choke, but he makes sure the entire thing goes in my mouth.

“There, I forgot how fucking annoying your voice was,” he says, standing up.

“I believe it’s time for lesson number one, Donald,” he says and the sick pleasure in his voice is heavy in the air.

I push back further against the wall. I know it’s useless. I have nowhere to go even if there is some space between us—still, I do it. It must be some fight or flight reflex. It’s the absolute wrong thing to do. Now I’m against the cold, hard cinderblock with nowhere to go, and Donald and Michael are standing in front of me. They are the two vilest and disgustingly evil men I have ever known in my life. If I could talk, I would scream, yell, berate, and curse… anything to make me feel better and to feel less…helpless. I pull on the bindings on my wrists and there’s a little give. I pull and tug harder and harder, hoping with everything in me to get them free.

That’s when I see it. The shiny steel pipe that Donald is holding, and that is why being against the wall is a bad thing. There is nothing to cushion me when my body absorbs the blow. It comes hard and the breeze from the swing reaches me first, sending chills from the cool air over my body. Then the pipe connects with my knees. As blows go, it could have been worse. There are much worse places to be hit than in your knees. I’ve had them all, so I know. Yet, the force is so strong and the pipe is so heavy that it doesn’t land with a thud. No, it cracks into the bone and pain radiates immediately. Tears gather in my eyes and spring free. I hate giving them tears, but there’s nothing I can do.

I’ve barely recovered from the first blow when another one follows it. This one is higher up on my legs, just above the knees. He’s trying to break my legs. I see it in their smiles, in the sinister way they look down at me, knowing they will get everything from me. I vow then, when I die, I will find a way to reach around them and drag them down into fucking hell with me. Michael reaches down and grabs my head, pulling out the handkerchief he leers at me.

“Are you ready to be nicer, Melinda? Surely, you’d rather this go easier on you? At least die with the dignity you never possessed in life.”

“Fuck…You…”

I’m gasping, and the tears clog my throat, but he looks at me strangely. I think my reply surprises him. I count that as a moral victory. The pain in my body is so intense there are black dots floating in my eyes, and I truly want to pass out.

“Melinda, you are even more stupid than I gave you credit for,” Michael says resignedly, stuffing the handkerchief back in my mouth.

Another hit by the pipe, this one lands against my stomach and my body feels like it’s being split in two from the blow. I don’t get to recover, before there’s another and then another. Four repeated hits in the same area, and I’m close to losing consciousness. I think the last two went higher than I first realized, because my breathing is ragged. Broken ribs? Maybe…I can’t be sure. Donald grabs my foot and pulls me roughly down to the ground. I lie there in misery. I can’t do anything else. Then I see the knife in Michael’s hands. A moment later, I feel the cold metal of the blade dance under my stomach. I’m waiting for the red hot fire of the blade slicing into my skin. I don’t get that. I can’t be happy about it though, because I feel the chill of air hit my skin as the blade slices through my shirt and bra.

It’s my worst nightmare come true. Lying on the cold floor, my body exposed to the two men that have violated me, haunted me…destroyed me. Michael puts the blade flat against my face and slides it down my forehead and further to my nose and my chin.

“It’s time for the fun to really begin, Melinda. If you tell me where my money is, I might do you a favor and end you before there’s too much pain.”

I close my eyes and try to pretend I’m somewhere else. It’s impossible with the pain. I can do nothing but cry and scream against the gag, as the knife slices into my stomach. I almost lose it at the white-hot agony that comes with the slicing of Michael’s blade against my skin. It’s familiar, but new and more intense than I remember. Perhaps, time had softened the memories after all, I’m not sure. All I know is, that with the second…or maybe it was the third….it all goes hazy. I feel Michael cut from the bottom of my ribcage, down my stomach, and darkness swallows me. I welcome it.

I can’t be sure of what happens next. Which is good and bad. I could have sworn I heard Nicole crying, and for the space of a minute, I thought I might have been rescued. Then I feel the far-off dull pain of someone kicking my stomach and the stretching of the cuts on my stomach. I hear crying and it sounds so mournful, so sad. I want to reach out and hug the person for the pain they must be enduring. Then I wonder…if maybe I’m the one who is crying? I hope I don’t give him that…I hope it’s not me.

I feel like I’m disconnected from my body. The pain is intense, but it’s almost as if I’m above it all looking down. I keep going in and out of consciousness, so I’m not sure how long Michael has had me. I don’t know why I’ve held on. Maybe I really am stupid like Michael says. Surely, a smart person would have already given up and died. I don’t want to live, I’m pretty much done and yet, somehow my body refuses to let go.

I’m being moved. I can hear voices over the pounding in my head. For a brief moment, I thought I felt the warmth of the sun on my body. I’m not sure. I can’t open my eyes, they’re swollen shut. I don’t exactly remember when that happened, I just remember the repeated blows from Michael. I’m burning up…fever…infection…the thoughts are jumbled in my head, but I know that’s what it is. I’ve lost blood, but nowhere near enough. Michael is a master at going to the limits of what a body can withstand. Still, he wants me dead, so this beating, this punishment is so far beyond anything he’s ever done before.

I hear the slam of a door and then we start moving. A car…I’m not in a seat though. I’m pretty sure they’ve thrown me in the trunk. There’s a moment when they go over something that jars the car and I bounce, causing even more pain than when they moved me. Railroad tracks. I let the hum of the car take over in my head and try to…die. It doesn’t happen. Breathing is getting harder though. Each breath is painful and shallower than the last. Is this a sign that it will all be over soon?

Eventually, the vehicle comes to a stop. I can hear the soft thud of doors closing. At least I figure that’s what they are, because the car rocks after the sound each time. Above me I hear the trunk lid opening.

My left arm is broken and useless, also the hand itself feels…different. The sleeve of my jacket has been split and there’s a large cut in the skin there. My right arm still seems to be working, but I hold it close to my stomach. I want them to believe it is as useless as the left. I also want them to believe I am completely out of it.

If Michael thinks I am unconscious, then I might be able to store up enough energy to use the knife I still have in my jacket. They’ve cut off the rest of my clothes. I don’t know why they left my jacket. Perhaps I have pure dumb luck? Maybe God decided he needed to answer one of my prayers after all, and this is his way. I probably am going to hell soon. I don’t see me making it to the pearly gates, but if I do, I intend on filing a grievance against the whole prayer selection process.

Someone is lifting me and the shift of my bones is so sudden that the pain is blinding. My head is hanging down and straining my neck, the pounding in my head, along with the pain from the rest of me is so all consuming that I almost black out. I can’t let that happen.

I’m tossed down on the ground with a thud. I wait. It seems all I’ve been doing is waiting my whole life. Waiting for Michael to kill me, waiting for someone to rescue me, waiting to feel normal, waiting to feel alive, and waiting to die. That has been my life. Here in this moment, I’ve come full circle. Only, this time I know that I can’t wait anymore. I can’t. I can’t wait for someone else to give me, my death. I can’t wait for a rescue. It ends here.

I hear talking off to my right. I can’t make out the words over the drumming pain. It doesn’t matter anyway. My hand pushes under my jacket to the inside pocket. It takes time, I don’t know how long exactly, but enough time to get my fingers and hand to cooperate to find the handle. My hands are covered in blood and the handle keeps slipping out of my grasp. Finally, I get it positioned just right, pull it out of the pocket, and lay it under my breast. I do my best to work and try and get my thumb to hit the release button for the blade. I can’t find it, and I can’t see. I have no strength, so I have no idea if I will even be able to push it in. I want to scream at how useless it all seems. I try…I try…and I try. I just can’t seem to get it.

Then, I hear Michael’s voice, “Is she dead yet?”

“She’s not cold, though I don’t see how the bitch could still be breathing,” Donald answers.

“She’s like a fucking cockroach, that’s how,” I hear Michael answer, and desperation swamps me.

With renewed strength, I push until I feel the spring snap and the blade unfold. It’s Crusher’s hunting knife. I saw it before I left and had to take it. I had hoped to use it on Michael, but since that opportunity didn’t present itself, I have to do what I can.

I want to yell at Michael and give him a great big, fuck you. I can’t. I’m too weak and they might stop me before I can carry this out. All I can do is be satisfied with the fact that I am ending this. Me—not Michael. I’m taking the only thing from him that I can—his pleasure in taking my life.

I should have done it long ago. I just didn’t want to accept that it was my only choice. I’m glad I didn’t. If I had, I would have never met Zander. I would have never got to love him, and somehow, that is worth all the pain. I do wish I could see his face again, or hear his voice one more time, but perhaps its better this way.

With that thought, I summon up what strength I have left and plunge the knife into my chest. I was aiming for my heart. I don’t think it made it. My hands are shaky and so weak that I know instantly it didn’t do the ultimate damage, but I can feel the blood leaving my body and know it was enough.

“Fuck!” I hear someone growl, and I could almost smile. It’s not physically possible even if I wasn’t tumbling into the darkness.