The night the Rhymer went whack

18

To truly appreciate beauty, you must experience unpleasantness.

It was pitch black as she was jostled awake in the comfort of her own bed and her only memory was the smell of flowers, manure and fresh dirt and evil. Reshod was her first thought, almost speaking it, but a swift blow knocked her semi-conscious. For a moment, painless, she knew it was coming, wishing she was hit just a little harder, desiring to be asleep through what was imminent. She tasted blood then felt her pants getting wet. Limp, she feared moving her arms, afraid she’d be unable to.

Then the blow to her face, her eye specifically; she felt that. Why am I still awake? she asked herself, as she moaned, wishing an end to the assault. But she did stay awake, feeling the yanking down of her pants, the upraising of her shirt, the fumbling and ultimately, the penetration. She smirked, thinking how grateful she was to be on her period, helping to ease the friction. He choked her, yet she stayed awake. She sniffled but felt no tears, and like a lifeless doll, unemotional. She just reacted to his every move, every position and every blow. And it wasn’t until he finished, the panting and the huffing, when she blacked out.