Cut Glass

Even though it’s night, and the sun has been down for the better part of three hours, the pavement is still warm. I feel it radiating up into me through my hands, my feet, my cheek pressed so hard into the sidewalk that I can feel the tiny granules leaving marks there. Under different circumstances, this might be quite pleasant.

He speaks. “Get up.”

I make a move to pull myself up to my hands and knees, but not fast enough for his liking. Before I’ve had time to draw a breath, before I can steel myself against his next assault, his heavy work boot connects with my ribs, and I go down again, coughing and gasping. Small blood drops fly from my mouth as I cough and sputter, trying to breathe. “I said, get up, bitch!” he hisses at me, throwing what seems like all his weight behind a kick to my side. I had expected something like that to come next, so I steel myself against it, and it doesn’t hurt as much. My arms are shaking as I try to pull myself up a second time, and I feel a pressure come down on the back of my neck. Lightly at first, and then my head is slammed into the concrete again as he stomps down on my neck. Unable to stop myself, I let out a small groan.

This seems to appease him somewhat. “Now, I’m going to tell you one more time to get up, sweetheart? Okay? Don’t make me do that to you again, precious, please. You know how I hate that. C’mon, get up.”

I raise myself for the third time on shaky arms. Blood drips from my broken
nose, falling to form perfect circles on the sidewalk below me. I hesitate for a second to steady myself, realizing too late that it is a mistake. I feel him grab the back of my shirt and hike me up to my feet. My collar chokes me and I gag on the blood from my nose trickling down my throat. I wince, expecting more punishment for being slow, but none comes.

He raises his hand and wipes the sidewalk dust from my face, with a look on his face that could almost be construed as caring. This whole time my brain’s been racing, trying to find a way out of this situation, trying to think of something that could save my life. Too late I realize that he has me up against the brick wall.

Too late.

Too late.

He talks to me in a sweet voice as he brushes the stands of loose hair from my face. “Now, was that so hard? Hmm? You know I don't like doing that to you, baby. It hurts me to hurt you. You know I hate to hurt you.” He takes my chin in his hand and lifts my face up to his. I look down, away, anywhere but his face. “Look at me, love.”

If I look at him, then he’ll beat me. I know this. I can feel it. If I don’t look at him, he’ll beat me. Either way, I lose. I bring my eyes up to his. They lock for the briefest of seconds. Then the back of his hand hits the side of my face, knocking me back; my head connects with the wall violently. This time I don’t try to stop the whimper of pain from escaping my throat.

All the sweetness that had crept into his voice was now gone. “Bitch. Who the fuck do you think you are, huh? Huh?!?” He places one arm across my neck and shoulders like a bar, pinning me against the wall. He presses against me, holding me against the wall with his weight. I can only wriggle under him, I can’t move my arms. I can feel his other hand moving down, fumbling violently with the buttons on my pants, while he brings his mouth close to my ear and starts telling me what a good little girl I’ll be, that it’s either me or him, that it’s too late to stop now and he’ll be gentle, he’ll make it good, what a good little subservient bitch I'm being. He tells me every nasty thing that he wants to do to me, everything that he plans on doing, and there’s nothing I can do about it, fucking bitch.

Slut.

Whore.

I stop whimpering, I stop feeling. I stop being. I close my eyes and go limp, pinned in between him and the wall. He must assume that I’ve passed out, and continues what he’s doing but ceases the commentary. I try to get away, anywhere but here, anything but this...I think back to Sunday school, say every prayer that I know, attempt some that I don’t. Please God, please don’t let him kill me. God, please. Where are you? Help me... Cars pass us nearby; why don’t you stop? Why don’t you help me? Can’t you see this? Help! Help.

Help.

He finishes and catches his breath against me. His hot breath pants against my neck; I’m taking breaths so shallow they don’t seem to be capable of sustaining life. What now? What happens now?

He pulls my pants back up and buttons them again, lovingly, as though what has just happened wasn’t just a power trip forced on someone he barely even knows. “You okay, baby?” I say nothing. His hand closes around my throat. “Answer me.” The hardness is back in his voice, his hand clenches tighter, I can’t breathe. “Bitch, answer me!” he screams into my face. Part of me fights back an answer...let him take you, let it end this way, don’t give in to him, better it end this way then somehow else...

I choke out a “yes.” One small, choked, monosyllabic “yes.”

His grip slackens, and his hand falls away from my throat altogether. He raises it and strokes my bloodied, swollen cheek, and I flinch. His touch makes me want to vomit, it burns. He touches the cuts and already forming bruises on my face. “Why’d you make me hurt you, love? I didn’t want to. Why’d you force me, baby?”

I just want it to be over. I don’t care what happens to me anymore. I say the only two words that come into my head:

“I’m sorry.”

He smiles, a genuine smile, and pulls me close to him. I can smell cigarette smoke embedded in his shirt, and feel him chuckle and his chest vibrate as he rests a hand on my head.

“Not as sorry as you will be, precious. Get in the car.”