Page 23 of Choke

I never enjoyed it when Marcus inflicted humiliation and terror on the prisoners. I preferred it when the women and girls wanted to join him. It was so much easier. All I had to do was wax lyrical about how the commune was paradise on a desolate and destructive earth. Those women believed that Marcus was their salvation, the second coming of a proverbial Jesus to save their souls from the brutality of the world.

Once they understood the truth, they didn’t care because they’d become fixated on the notion of sacrificing their choice, their freedom, and their lives to worship at the feet of a man who didn’t care about them.

Those who presented the challenge were women like the one who stood before me. Women like Mona.

I stood there weak and pathetic as Marcus forced her to her knees and kicked her in the face.

Mona wiped away the blood trickling down her face and glared at Marcus. “You can try to break me. But you won’t succeed.”

“You pathetic bitch,” Marcus hissed. “You think the worst I can do is beat you? There are far worse punishments for women like you. I can pass you around my men. Let each of them take a turn. Use your body until you can’t walk straight. So I’d be careful if I were you, you dumb cunt.”

Marcus turned to me when Mona laughed at Marcus’s words. “Make her bleed.”

Guilt is a complex emotion because its outcome is never entirely predictable. Some people turn guilt into violence, while for others it becomes a penance.

My guilt sparked a curiosity that evolved into an obsession. A burning need to ensure she was okay. So I became a shadow.

Her shadow.

Most nights, I watch Mona close up the center and walk the few blocks of urban decayed sidewalks to her modest apartment. An apartment in a part of town that makes my eye twitch. She doesn’t have to live in that hellhole. One of her sister’s husbands is ungodly wealthy. He could set her up in a penthouse, but Mona wants to stay near the people she helps. Admirable or stupid? I’m not sure which, but it doesn’t matter because we own the building. Mona is safe. She’ll always be safe with Atlas and me.

I stand on the other side of the street and watch a neighborhood punk pull a knife on Mona.

“Don’t be a stupid bitch. Give me your purse. You don’t want to die today, do you, lady?”

Someone will die tonight, but it won’t be my angel.

I cross the street, watching the scene unfold. My instinct is to rush the motherfucker and slit his throat, but a part of me enjoys watching Mona handle challenging situations. Is that some sort of kink from watching her take a beating without flinching? I understand how fucked up that is. Getting hard as fuck by a woman being beaten, but it’s not her abuse that consumes me. It’s that she can take a punch. The fight rivets me.

“I’m not giving you anything,” Mona says calmly. “I will help you, though.”

My shoulders shake as I silently chuckle. This asshole is threatening to slice her up, and she’s offering him a helping hand. This is why she needs me. She may think she’s tough, but she’s too sweet for her own good. This cocksucker will take advantage of her, and I simply can’t have that.

“Listen, bitch, it’s not like you can’t afford it.”

“You think I can afford it? I live in this neighborhood and work for a nonprofit. My bank account has forty-three dollars and twenty-one cents in it.” Mona pulls out her wallet andshoves it at him. “Is twenty bucks and some loose change worth going to jail for?”

The punk sneers as he steps closer and holds the knife to Mona’s throat. “There won’t be any jail time if you can’t talk, bitch.”

Nah, motherfucker, it’ll be you who can’t talk when I slash your throat and drain the blood from your worthless body.

“You can stab me, but having my death on your conscience won’t be worth the couple of dollars you’ll get out of it.”

The asshole sneers and presses the tip of the blade into Mona’s throat. “Shut your mouth, bitch, before I slit your throat for shits and giggles. You’re so fuckin’ annoying. I’m sure I’d be doing the world a favor. You think I’ve never come across do-gooders like you? Holier than thou chicks who think they can fix the world with a few pleasant words and a meal?”

Mona moves, allowing the blade to pierce the delicate flesh of her throat. “Do it. If you think you’ll feel better, go ahead.” She laughs. “I bet you’ve never even seen a dead body, have you? You think I’m weak, but you don’t know the first thing about me. You don’t know where I’ve come from, what I’ve endured, and what I’ll sacrifice. Go ahead, big man. Show me what a bitch I am.”

Do it? Fuck, Mona.

The punk sneers and pushes the blade against her throat. “Oops. Looks like the blade slipped a little. I’d hate for it to puncture your jugular. Why don’t you be a good girl and give me your purse?”

I don’t even think. No hesitation, no concern, no plan. I bolt forward, grab the fucker’s shoulder, and twist. That’s when I see the blood.

Mine?

His?

His arms flail, but I dodge his fist as he tries to punch me. I shove him to the ground and fall on him. I pummel him, myfists connecting with his face repeatedly until blood gushes and splatters streaks of crimson onto my face. “She. Is. Mine. And. I. Don’t. Like. My. Things. Touched.”

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