bottle of vintage 1986 Bordeaux, then that’s what you’re fucking going to do!”
Spittle flies from his mouth onto my face. I try to speak, but I can’t. I can’t get in any air.
His grip gets tighter and tighter, and the world starts to turn black.
“Trash,” he growls at me and lets go, stepping back.
I gasp for air, hunching over and wheezing to get my breath, my throat burning. I can feel wetness in my underwear, probably blood. It reminds me that no matter what happens, I will not go with him to his room.
If he wants to try to rape me here, so be it.
I’ll be ready.
The thought gives me the last bit of power I have.
I slowly straighten myself up and, out of the corner of my eye, spot the drawer that has the knives. It’s close, but I’m not sure I can get to it without making him suspicious.
“Well,” he says, gesturing at me, “catch your breath and get the wine.”
The wine is in the cellar, a place I normally hate going to, but tonight, dread fills me head to toe. He could get away with anything down there. He could lock me up there for all he wanted. Dead or alive. Beaten or not. Would anyone notice? Would my own mother?
That’s my greatest fear. That she wouldn’t even notice if I were gone, that she would be so blinded by her duty and devotion, so fucking brainwashed, that she wouldn’t even care.
I nod, gathering my thoughts, trying to stall going down there. “I’ll just get the corkscrew and the glasses first,” I say, heading to the drawer. I pull it open and see the knives, but then he’s right behind me, hovering. I grab the corkscrew and slam the drawer shut, trying to sidle out of the way, but he’s pulling my hair back over my shoulder and placing his lips at my neck.
It takes all the strength I have left not to shudder, to hide my revulsion.
“You never wear your hair down,” he murmurs while my hand tightens over the corkscrew. “Perhaps I should make that a rule.”
I don’t say anything. My eyes are closed, and I’m just praying for him to step away.
Instead he presses himself against me, and I can feel his erection.
“On second thought, I don’t think we need the wine,” he says, and then suddenly he grabs my hair, making a fist, yanking my head back. A sharp cry dies on my lips. “I don’t think we need to go anywhere at all.”
I hear the unzip of his pants and feel his free hand move up my legs, pushing up my skirt while the other hand pulls my head back so hard and far that I’m afraid my back is going to crack in two.
“No,” I tell him, as I’ve told him many times before, my voice ragged and gasping. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
That last part is new. I’ve never said that before.
I’m so afraid now that I’m no longer afraid. Like the fear and the knowledge of what this monster is capable of have morphed into something bigger than my fear.
It wants justice.
It wants revenge.
It won’t take this anymore.
Suddenly he lets go of my hair and forces me to spin around before he pulls back and hits me right across the face with a loud crack. The world goes fuzzy and spinning, my cheek exploding into sharp shards of pain as I fall to the side, barely hanging on to the counter to keep me up.
But that corkscrew is still in my hand.
He comes at me again, and this time I scream. I scream nonsense, just a high-pitched yell of all my pain and terror, and I take the corkscrew and ram it right into his forearm as he’s trying to grab me, driving it in as deep as it will go.
He’s screaming now, too, loud and bloodcurdling, and I have just enough time to try to make a run for it while he’s occupied.
“You bitch!” he yells and swipes out for me, trying to get me.
But I’m fast enough that I make it all the way to the french doors that lead out into the backyard.
Just as I’m undoing the lock and opening them, I see my mother on the other side in her pajamas, staring at me.
“I heard a scream!” she exclaims as I open the door. She quickly looks me up and down before literally pushing me out of the way and stepping inside, heading toward