Page 58 of Crybaby

“She fucking asked for it, man!” he yells, trying to fight me off.

In response, I smash his head into the microwave door—once, twice, three times. I only stop because the door buckles under the force.

He attempts to buck me off, but I am running on pure rage and use his face to clean the dirty dishes off the counter as I run his head through them.

Glasses, plates, and pots tumble to the floor, adding to the bedlam, but it’s not enough.

With my fingers still wrapped around his nape, I drop the plug into the sink and turn the cold water on. He is desperately fighting, but he isn’t going anywhere. I can hear Granny bashing on the cupboard door and squeaking for help.

“Why are you fighting for her? She loved it! Her tight little pussy was begging for our cocks! So was her a—”

He doesn’t get a chance to speak those vile words ever again because I dunk his head into the sink, forcing him to gulp down the water. He slams his big hands against the sink, his bare feet slipping and sliding in the spilled water and blood seeping from the cuts on his feet, thanks to the broken glass.

I lift his head out and watch as he gasps for air like a fish out of water. “Tell her you’re sorry!” I scream, turning his cheek to look at Darcie, who seems to be coming to.

He spits at her in response.

“Fine, have it your way then.”

I submerge his face once more, gripping his hair so hard that clumps of it come free in my hand. I cannot stop. Knowing what he did to Darcie has me wanting to kill this motherfucker with my bare hands.

Suddenly, Granny comes out of hiding with a broomstick. Wiry old thing she is. I see the fight in her, but really, now is not the time. Darcie runs over and grabs the broomstick from her hands and sweeps her out the back door.

Buckets gargles, bubbles floating to the surface as he tries to take in air, but the only thing this fucker will be taking is a broken glass in his ass if he keeps talking smack about Darcie.

“Rev.” It’s only Darcie’s voice that makes me see reason.

Turning to look at her, I watch her as she turns off the TV, only to search the old radio for a song. When “Heart of Glass” by Blondie comes on, she smiles and starts to dance around the kitchen, lost to Debbie Harry’s voice.

The song is happy and upbeat, a complete opposite to how Buckets is feeling with his face in a sink full of water.

As she hums to the music, she dances over to me, leaving me speechless because the look in her eyes tells me she’s about to shake my world up beyond repair. She leans in close, singing the chorus as she removes the plug from the sink.

The water swirls down the drain, each chug allowing more air to reach Buckets’s lungs. And when I hear him inhale deeply, I smash his face against the side of the sink, angered he’s still alive.

She places her hand over mine, and her touch is like a ten-thousand-volt shock throughout my body. It’s sensory overload, and she feels it too.

I let Buckets go, only for Darcie to take hold of him and lift his head as she bends her face low, making them eye level.

“They call you Buckets because of your big hands, right?” she asks, her eyes alight with devious excitement. “Those big hands could have been used for good, but instead, you poked those fucking things where they don’t belong!”

“You liked it,” he snarls, baring his teeth. Is this what he tells himself so he can sleep at night?

“No, no, no,” she whispers, pressing her nose to his. “I really didn’t.”

It looks like she’s about to kiss him, and when she turns on the garbage disposal, I realize this is something he isn’t going to like.

Before he can blink, she jams his hand down the disposal unit, holding him down with all her might. He tries to free himself with his other hand, so I slam it over the edge of the sink, breaking his wrist. His bones crunch in time with the music.

Soon, Buckets goes into shock, his hand getting sucked farther and farther into the garbage disposal. His face is pale, and he hangs like a limp piece of meat while I stand back, so fucking turned on at seeing my girl take revenge, covering herself in his blood.

She then reaches for a corn cob holder in the shape of a little yellow corn with its sharp little prongs poking out and jams it at full force into Buckets’s left eye. There is something personal in that action. She is taking something back he stole from her.

He screams bloody murder as if that hurt more than the garbage disposal making a meal out of his hand.

She wipes the blood splatter across her cheek, marking her face like the true warrior she is, and I can’t help myself. I grab the back of her head and slam my mouth over hers. At first, she freezes, but when I nudge her lips open with my tongue, she opens to me and kisses me back.

I tangle my fingers through her hair as she stands on her toes to reach my mouth.

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