Page 51 of Pen Pal

I squinted, trying to focus my eyes as my blood dribbled from my mouth. Mark removed his hood, his bruises yellowing, and his cuts scabbed over his face. My vision slowly cleared as I took in his disheveled state and noticed blood dripping from his pistol.

Myblood.

He aimed his gun at me, advancing as he pressed the barrel against my temple, and I gasped. “You want to scream?” he taunted. “I’m sure your little friend Marta will hear, but she won’t make it to work tomorrow.”

A lump formed in my throat as I thought of my boss, the woman who gave me a chance despite the large employment gap in my resume. She was locking up the office right now, and if she was outside near her car, she might hear me. But I couldn’t put her life in danger, not after everything she did for me. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.

“Mark, let’s talk about this,” I placated, my brain reeling, trying to find some way out of this. I slowly rose to my feet, raising my hands. I eyed the butcher block and the knives that gleamed inside.

He cocked the gun, and I froze, and he drew his leg back and kicked me. I stumbled back, clutching my aching stomach, but I caught myself on the kitchen counter.

“Nice try, bitch,” he growled, leveling the gun at my head.

Memories of my worst beatings flitted through my mind. The numerous broken bones, cuts, and bruises, free clinic visits in the middle of the workday, and all the ties Mark cut, the bridges he burned to keep me trapped by his side. How he turned the very home we chose into my prison, howevery move I made was analyzed and criticized. How Mark chipped away at my confidence and self-worth until there was nothing life had to offer me but misery and pain.

My blood boiled with hot fury as I ducked and charged him, elbowing him hard in the ribs. He doubled over, and I stomped on his foot, then launched myself at my front door. The air pushed my hair from my face as I stumbled in my heels, my body slamming against the door. I fumbled with the doorknob, unlocking it—

I screamed as Mark yanked me back by my hair and slammed me against the wall. I cried out as he turned the lock again. My heart pounded, the four walls of this house closing in, suffocating.

“You never did know when to quit,” he hissed in my ear, his putrid breath stirring, pressing against my face. “You’re just making it harder on yourself.”

His gun collided with my face, and my ears rang as my steps faltered, my breath labored, and my vision went blurry. He knocked me to the ground and knelt over me, punching me anywhere he could reach.

I held my arms above my face, trying to protect myself as best as I could, and then I clawed at him. I scratched his stupid, ugly face, smirking when I realized that I had drawn blood.

Iturned my head to the side, trying to breathe through the blood pouring down my nose and mouth. Mark clutched at his face, screaming as I rolled over weakly, using my hands to drag myself along the floor, anything to get away from him.

But I slid in my own blood as he dragged me back toward him, my nails scraping against the tile.

He flipped me over on my back, black dotting my vision as I vaguely registered him standing over me, smiling at my weakened state, and then he was unzipping my pants.

I went rigid before I lashed out, trying to kick him as my legs tangled in my half-off pants. He yanked them away and caught my ankles, dragging me to him until I was flush with his prick.

I gagged, my stomach lurching hard at the contact, at the realization of what he was about to do to me. I kicked my feet, trying desperately to throw him off me, but I was bleeding everywhere, and he was determined to hurt me.

Mark forced his prick in me, and I screamed, my hole dry and burning at the contact. The pain was unbearable, and I twisted my hips, trying to push myself away from him. He penetrated me repeatedly, and I clawed at him, trying to skin him alive with my blunt nails. Each stab of his member was excruciating, and I grittedmy teeth in agony.

“Isn’t this what you like, bitch?” he laughed, transferring both my ankles to one hand as he gripped his gun, pointing it at my face as he tore me in two.

I choked on my blood, coughing as it splattered on my blouse. My body screamed in protest every time I tried to move. The room was spinning, and black dotted my vision. My limbs went cold and numb, like they weren’t part of me anymore.

I wasn’t sure when I stilled, maybe when he slammed my head into the floor one too many times. Or perhaps it was when the pain became too unbearable or when my body stopped feeling like my own.

Mark was crouched above me, his breath ragged with exertion. “That’s better,” he cooed, his hands letting my dead legs fall to the floor as he gripped my hips, his weight crushing. “See how easy it is when you stop fighting?”

But I was no longer there. I went somewhere else, above my body, watching from a distance. I could still hear Mark, still feel the hazy throb of pain, but it was muffled, like a dream that I wasn’t awake for.

I stared at the ceiling, my vision unfocused, darting between the cracks in the plaster, tracingthem like a roadmap leading somewhere else. My breath rattled in my chest, detached and sluggish.

The room smelled like sweat, blood, and him.

I forced a slow inhale, filling my aching lungs with air. I made myself breathe because I had to survive this. I hadn’t come this far just to die here.

I was elsewhere, far away, where he could never reach me.

Mark let out a low, satisfied laugh as he ran a hand down my thigh, gripping too hard, bruising already battered skin as he jammed himself in me. I barely registered it because I was floating, gone.

Then he groaned, and I felt his prick pulse.

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