Now that I’ve had a dagger thrust keenly into my belly, I can absolutely say it’s a fucking awful sensation—the kind of pain so brutal, it hasn’t allowed me to cry out. Maybe I won’t have the chance.
I sensed the steel was hot with hatred; my skin prickled upon the piercing. And all of my guts began to itch and burn the deeper the blade was plunged; the barbed sort of burning keeps me hushed.
I didn’t scream or start when I caught him walking up this morning; I was kneeling in my flower garden, dazed by the thrilling and sour sight of him. I only gasped, and he was on me before I could stand, though he didn’t stick me right away.
He said—no, he mocked, “I can never unknow you.” His skin smelled of posh French cologne, and his breath of Irish whiskey.
He forced me onto…
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