Page 175 of On a Fault Line

He hit me.

Why did he hit me?

I’m being good.

I’m not being bad.

Why?

Tears burst from my eyes, blinding me. The only serenity I get is that they mask his evil smile.

“There. That should tame the fight out of you.”

“You hurt me,” I wail in confusion.

My stuttered inhales are coming at a faster pace than my exhales. It feels like my entire head is shoved into a bag with a limited supply of oxygen.

It’s running out…

I double over, panting as the panic sets in.

“You better know your place. You are here as a test subject—nothing more.”

“Model…” I whimper.

“You dumb fuck. You aren’t pretty enough to model.”

Loading up a syringe from a tiny vial, Mark grabs my arm.

“Stop!” I scream, but no words come out…

Silence.

“Time for a little dose of medicine.” He twists my arm, making me wince. “It always makes poor little college students more compliant. As if a formal education will somehow make you less naive in thinking you actually have a chance of being a silly model. The best part is, if you die from an overdose, it will look like an accident.”

My eyes laser in on the rubber band Mark is tying around my arm.

NO!

I wiggle to try to get it off, while my other hand attempts to pry the band from my skin.

“Get it off!”

“Dumb fuck.”

With every ounce of energy I have, I go ballistic.

I thrash.

I claw.

I bite.

I knee.

“Fuck, you are delightful when you think you can fight me.”

I kick.

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