Page 2 of Peak Cruelty

I turn my head as much as I can.

She’s standing now, sheet clutched in her hands, eyes wide—not with fear.

With recognition.

And then he walks in.

The fourth man.Slower than the others.Older.Dressed like he’s arriving for a dinner party we’re not hosting.

He doesn’t look at me.

He looks straight at her.

She doesn’t move.Doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need her to.

He nods once.

The other two men cross the room.

She doesn’t run.She doesn’t scream.

One of them grabs her by the arm.The other yanks the sheet away.

She stumbles.Tries to catch herself.

Then a hand strikes her across the face, and she goes down hard.

I push against the weight on my back.

Useless.

A heel digs into my spine.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

That voice is amused.

She’s on her knees.One arm twisted behind her, the other covering her chest.

They beat her where she kneels—each hit deliberate, practiced.A foot drives into her ribs.Something gives.

She folds forward, choking on the blood she tries not to spit.

Another blow catches her temple.Blood spills fast, tracks down her face, blinds her.

Most people would be pleading at this point.But not her.

Her limbs start to sag between hits, no longer bracing, just collapsing under their own weight.

She keels sideways, trying to pull in air, but all that comes is a choking rattle.

Her body shudders once.Then again.Then goes slack.

They don’t stop.

They move around her like she’s already wreckage.

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