Page 505 of Rage

I turn to him and smile, waiting for his news.

“A police officer called me at work today. I had to take a break. Boss-man wasn’t so fucking happy about that. The police informed me they got a call from you. Apparently, I’m hurting you and you want to leave, but I’m keeping you here?”

I grit my teeth, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“Not so fucking chatty now, are you?” He throws his lunch bag at me and opens the fridge to grab two beers before heading out to the patio.

No, no, no. The police did nothing, but they weren’t supposed to put me in the bullseye. I can’t move. Dread courses through me. I can never do anything right. Maybe I am the worthless whore they said I’d always be.My lungs feel empty, and I wish I could just fucking disappear.

With a deep breath, I turn to the counter and wipe the spotless space. I don’t know how to smooth this over. There isn’t a word that can soothe the cracks I’ve caused.

“Clara, beer!” His voice flows through the apartment from the patio.

I hesitate before reaching for another two glass bottles. Each filled with the poison that gives him the extra courage to rip me to shreds.

As I walk out to give it to him, I tread over the soft carpet, but each step feels like broken eggshells tearing at my soul. Fear is at least half of my blood type, and bile rises in the back of my throat with the unknown that lies ahead.

It wasn’t always this way. He was kind when I met him. Red flags popped up in the controlling winds that fluttered through our relationship. In hindsight, I missed crucial exits. The first time he struck me, I should have left. Many breakups have sprinkled through our years together, but he always brings me back. It’s like I’m tied to him, and I’ll never be able to break free from the hold he has on me.

“Sit.”

His jaw clenches as he chugs the beer. Opening the other, he sips it and glances over at the backyard. I settle into the wooden chair beside him. Nerves erode any armour I might have, and my heart is raw from the wait.

“You know, I always loved you. No one could hold a flame to you, not even the other bitches who blew me from time to time. But you don’t fucking quit, do you? Always with the theatrics—running away, and now this fun petty act of calling the pigs on me.”

“I’m sorry.” I pick at the peeling wood on the armrests of the chair like he always does to my shattered soul.

“You’re not. You thought those coppers would help you? Clara, I’m never leaving. You can never get away from me. I will always find you. I’ll take everything you love and destroy it. Mark my words, I’ll strip the flesh from your bones and dispose of you.” His voice is chillingly quiet, each word dripping with promise and malice. “What did you make me for dinner?” he asks. The words slurred. He’s been drinking more than beer tonight.

“Beef stew.”

“Let’s go eat dinner, shall we?” he grins, and rises unsteadily from his seat.

When I stand, he grasps my wrist and walks beside me to the sliding door. His hand tightens around my skin and his other slams me forcefully against the house. “You’ll never fucking escape me. I own you, cunt.”

Ryan grips my hair and pulls me away from the house before rearing his fist to connect with my cheek. As I fall against the bricks, he grips the base of my skull and presses me harder against the rough texture. “I own you,” he whispers in my ear before he pushes me to the ground and walks into the house.

The physical pain is a fleeting bandage over the bleeding of my soul. A temporary distraction from the drowning feeling that overwhelms the inside of my body. With small movements, I push myself up off the cement, open the door, and go in.

Dishes crash in the kitchen, and I slip down the hall to the bathroom. A woman I don’t even recognize anymore isbefore me in the mirror. The sunken eyes reflect the fear and exhaustion that runs through me. The tears I want to let go harbour in my chest, waiting for the gate to open.

With damp tissues, I clean the blood from my chin. My lip will heal. It’s been worse than this before. The goose egg growing from my eyebrow isn’t going anywhere soon. It’ll be stuck, just like me. An aching pulse radiates through my face with its own heartbeat. It syncs with mine, and I open the medicine cabinet to take a couple of pain relievers.

“Clara!”

I jump at his voice, and panic chews at my muscles. I swallow the pills dry and wash my hands before heading to the kitchen.

“This tastes like shit. Why are you fucking terrible at everything you do?” He slams the bowl on the counter, and it shatters. He staggers to the fridge and pulls another beer out of the side before sitting at the kitchen table. Bottles must be lined up out on the patio. I’ll have to remember to clean them up.

“It’s your favourite. I make it the same way every time,” I whisper.

I walk across the room, gathering the shattered pieces of the bowl and cleaning the brown liquid that spilled down the cupboard.

“All you do is fuck up. Today you were the stupidest you’ve ever been. I’m going to teach you tonight how much I own you. Betcha won’t be calling the fucking pigs again.”

The thought of his hands on me chills my blood. Every time he’s angry, it’s like a monster possesses him, and I end up black and blue the next day. “I promise I won’t call them again,” I tell him.

Wiping the counter, I damn well know I’m never going to phone them again. They will not assist me. Apparently, they put women in danger. Can’t help until he kills me.

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