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What the fuck is she doing to me?
A tidal wave of noise slams into me until it's all I can do to stand there and take it. Everything is loud. Her breathing, the drip in the corner of the room, the grumble of her stomach that she pretends isn't there. I could snap her neck and bring us both less misery. I'm going to if she doesn't start obeying me.
I start snatching shit from my pockets and toss it on the bed around her.
"No thanks," she tells me, barely even glancing at it, as she flicks at a thread on the blanket.
How pathetic. It makes me even angrier.
"Oh, we ain't playing this game today," I snarl at her as I lean over the bed, pressing my palms flat to the blanket she has tucked around herself. I don't know what I'm going to say. She smells like sugar-coated strawberries and sweat, and the anger is loud now, pulsing against my eardrums and thrumming inside my brain like the reverb of a guitar that never stops. I can taste my disgust as easily as I can hear my rage. It lays thick and bitter on my tongue as my fingers cinch the blanket around her body, wanting the scratchy fabric to be her throat instead.
There are a lot of things I can tolerate, but this isn't one of them. Pathetic is a bad goddamn look on her. I'm going to kill her. I'm going to set her skinny ass on fire and stop this torment. I'm going to . . .
Give her an impossible choice.
I blink as it comes to me. I figure it's either that or adding a murder charge to my impending rap sheet. I yank a chocolate bar from where it landed above her head and I punch it into the mattress inches away from her face. She flinches at the hit.
"Eat it," I snarl, "or get on your goddamn knees. Do neither, and I'll make you eat it before I fuck your face, and I don't care how many teeth you have to swallow, baby girl, to choke it all down."
The impossible choice.
Either way, I fucking win.
I don't want to win, though. I want her to win, goddammit! Why is she doing this to herself?!
She sits up in bed slowly, the blanket falling around her to the bed, and she crosses her arms around her chest. The bones in her hands and wrists flex as she does, and the rage inside of me broils even hotter.
"No," she says flatly.
She even sounds dead today.
GODDAMMIT!!!
I tear open the chocolate bar with my teeth, spitting out part of the wrapper, and I don't warn her or ease her into it. I shove the fucking thing into her mouth until she's choking and coughing on it. She tries to spit at me and loses a little of it, pieces of candy falling down the front of her shirt and into her lap. I force her head up by her chin and pinch her nose shut with my other hand until she has no choice but to swallow if she wants to breathe. She tries to scratch at me, raking her nails over my skin. I feel them catch on my flesh. That's going to be a bitch to explain, but I barely feel the marks. She screams into my hands, but I hold tight, forcing her to swallow.
One swallow, then a second, and then a third, until finally, I yank my bleeding arms away from her, and she sucks in a deep breath. Her drool is speckled with chocolate dust, and she looks like she's going to be sick. I don't give a fuck, though. I warned her. She refused to choose, and now I'm choosing for her. I told her I'd never lie to her, and I meant it.
I raise my hands to my belt, and she bares her chocolate-stained teeth at me.
"Bring your dick to my face," she warns, "and I'll bite it off!"
"On your knees," I hiss as I step forward, and she holds her ground. I grab her beneath her chin and heat her already flushed skin with my words. "On your knees, baby girl. Let's see you try to count the calories of my fucking cum."
She spits at me, and it lands hot and sticky across my face, tattooing my skin with her anger.
Good, I want her angry. Anything is better than dead.
I lean in, eating up the space between us and crowding her. I let my words slither across her lips.
"More," I snarl.
She tries again, and this time, when her saliva hits me, I catch her by the throat and crawl astride the bed, my knees on either side of hers. With one hand around her throat, I roll the wheel of the lighter with my free thumb. I bring it between us and watch the delicate flame dance in the air.
"Don't," she croaks, wincing with the word.
Tears prick at her eyes, and she looks like she's about to cry. Such an attitude adjustment for the little spitfire. I don't fucking like it.
"I hate you," she tells me.
