Page 4 of The Devil and I
“You're not allowed to die. And whoever this Mark is, he's going to suffer for whatever he's done to you.” I wanted to laugh, but didn't have the strength to muster more than another silly little giggle. The idea of actually getting justice for what was done to me when no one even wanted to listen to me seems absolutely ridiculous at this point. Mark promised me that no one would believe me. He told me he had friends in high places, from the police force to the court room. How could I possibly fight that? I am nothing. Just a nobody without any real friends or family left.
I force my eyes to open, turning my head towards the source of the voice, speaking softly to me. Although still blurry, I can see just enough to acknowledge the behemoth of a man sitting in the driver seat of the car I am clearly in. I glance briefly at the large electronic device, like a laptop, situated between us. It towers over a central console covered in switches and buttons. It is a bit too much for my brain to process right now, so I force my gaze back to the shadowed figure sitting beside me.
Everything about this man is impressive. The lights from the car's dashboard illuminate his face, and when he turns his head to look at me I am struck by the radiance of his grey eyes. They look like molten silver when bathed in the cool tones of the car's interior lights. A few wayward, black strands of hair fall over his forehead and frame that piercing gaze of his. My eyes wander lower, along the strong column of his throat, and down to the formidable expanse of his torso. He isn't wearing a shirt, which makes it easy to see just how powerfully built this man is. His entire upper body is laden in thick muscle; the kind of physical structure you would find on a mixed martial arts fighter in his prime.
Whoever this man is, he is extremely attractive, like a fallen angel capable of making everyone around him give in to their most sinful desires with just one sultry stare. A small voice in my head tries to point out how different the two of us are as we sit side by side. He is massive and powerfully built, where I am small and curvy. Everywhere that I am soft, he looks so very... hard.
I force my mind to focus through the fog, suddenly wondering why this police officer is shirtless. Don't cops wear uniforms? A small laugh hiccups out of me yet again.
“Where is your shirt, Officer?” I ask quietly, turning back to rest my head against my seat and closing my tired eyes. A low rumble of gentle laughter fills the car, and the sound is soothing too. Just like his voice, which reminds me of distant thunder. I really love it, if I am being honest with myself. It is my new favourite sound, I decide then and there.
“I was out for a run after my shift. I used my shirt to wrap your arm.”
Oh, right. I slit my wrist open in the forest.
“Well, Officer No-Shirt, thanks for nothing. Now he can find me and kill me himself,” I whisper brokenly, the mixture of humor and hopelessness tastes so sour on my tongue. “I'm sure he will make sure I suffer first.” My words are still slurred, and I can't help but wonder why I sound like I'm drunk. I hate alcohol, so I can't quite fathom why I feel like I've been on a week-long binge.
I try to relax my body and let the current pull me back under, but his voice keeps me hovering just above the surface. Strangely, this man sounds angry. His beautifully rich and deep voice is laced with tones of frighteningly calm rage.
“If anyone so much as breathes in your direction, I'm going to gut them like a pig and string them up for the vultures to pick at.”
Huh. That doesn't sound very police-like. Now I am wondering if I should be afraid of this man. He told me he is a cop, but is that the truth? He sounds more like an avenging angel, or maybe he is a demon. Angels don't usually threaten to violently murder people, right?
“I wish I had a monster of my own, then maybe the other monster wouldn't have hurt me,” I muse, my words slurring so badly that I wonder if I am intelligible at all. His following words are the last thing that passes through my consciousness as I slip back under, causing a strange sense of safety and relief to wash over me. I didn't mean to sink back into the dark ocean below, but I am so just so incredibly tired.
“Don't worry. I've got you now, and no one will ever hurt you again. They'll die before they get the chance.”
Whether it is right or wrong no longer matters. Every single shattered piece of me begs for this stranger's words to be true. All I ever wanted was for someone to protect me, or even care enough to try.
***
Pain. It wraps around me like a second skin. His calloused fingers leave crackling trails of agony wherever they go. He grips my upper arms and shakes me as tears pour down my face, his distorted voice warning me to shut my whore mouth before someone hears me.
He tells me things that sicken me, and those words keep changing every time the shadows around me shift.
I know you want me.
You asked for this.
You wore that short skirt because you want me to fuck you.
You can't show up to a date looking like that and not put out.
You came to this filthy bar, so you'll get fucked like a filthy slut.
I want to block his words out, but I can't. His wet lips are pressed against my ear, and each word is echoing through the fog that surrounds me.
The pain keeps me focused, but all I want to do is disappear.
He tells me I need to focus on his dick, focus on making it feel good. He wants me to watch as he forces himself past that tight ring of muscle hidden between the cheeks of my ass. I didn't want anything going in that place, let alone this person's dick.
Dirty whores get fucked in this hole, he tells me.
He can't stand my crying anymore. His hand rises so quickly, I can't even register it before is cracks like lightning across my face. I am stunned, but the tears keep coming. He grabs me roughly and turns me around, forcing my face against the filthy wall out in the quiet alley behind the bar I agreed to meet him at.
I try to fight him off. I'll do anything to make the pain stop. If I can just get away...
His arm wraps around my neck, his forearm pressing hard against my throat. I want to scream, but I can't. I can barely breathe.
