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When he releases me, I hazily think that I am free and that he is leaving.
The heavy slap that knocks me back against the wall, splitting my lip open, comes out of nowhere, and I crumple to the ground at the force of it.
Lip and cheek burning as if they were on fire, my vision blurs and then there is a hand in my hair, gripping it painfully tight, forcing me onto my knees. “What was that? Say that again.”
I hear the warning in his voice, and this time the defiance in me rears its head.
Oh, I am fucking terrified. But I am not going to let him see that.
My lips twist. “Psychopath. I called you a psychopath, you tone-deaf turd.”
That insult is creative, even for me.
Another blow lands on my face and I welcome the pain, embrace it even.
It is clearing my head, reminding me that I am not going to be bullied any longer.
“You just don’t know when to stop, do you?” Thomas almost sounds pleased, and I feel disgust creeping up on me.
“Obviously, that would be a turn on for you, you shit-faced pervert.”
Thomas’s grip in my arm tightens, making my eyes water with the pain as he murmurs softly. “Someone should really do something about that pretty mouth of yours.”
I maintain eye contact with him. “Fuck you.”
The sudden release of his grip on me has me falling onto my hands and then the air whooshes out of me as his foot comes into contact with my stomach, the pain white hot and making me gasp out.
“I lost my job because of you, you whore!”
I try to fight back but he is bigger and he is stronger and I lost a lot of muscle mass and weight with the recent stress. Blows rain down on me and he is shouting and screaming, his words not reaching me.
I am no longer in my dance studio.
I am back in his house, cowering at the edge of the green carpeted stairs, trying to protect my baby, my back to that flowery wallpaper that I hate as I curl into a ball, taking in the kicks and punches.
Screams: his or mine?
I can’t tell anymore.
Oh, God. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!
It is the inhuman scream that jerks me out of the recesses of my mind.
A horrified face that is so achingly familiar.
And then it is almost a blur as I feel the rush of air.
Another scream.
The sound of flesh hitting flesh.
A pair of hands lifting me up.
There are two of them.
I know this face; baby blue eyes look at me in anger, but not aimed at me.
He is saying something.
