by West, Sam
She didn’t even have time to draw breath. Her head swam with shock and disbelief and she opened her mouth to cry out his name but no words would come. He knocked her on her back with the force of his weight slamming into her, pinning her to the mattress.
His thighs straddled her hips and one hand reached down to wrap around her neck. Her windpipe immediately crushed with the force of his squeezing hand and she clawed at it, gasping for air. Her head tightened alarmingly, her vision blurring. Tom was nothing more than a shadowy shape on top of her; he was a stranger, this couldn’t be her husband, it just couldn’t…
The ringing in her ears increased to a harsh buzzing that blotted out all other noise, even the rain lashing against the window.
Dimly, she was aware of her pyjama top being ripped from her torso, and cool air on her bare breasts. His free hand roamed her body; squeezing, moulding, pinching. He was hurting her. Her dear Tom was hurting her. It beggared belief but it was really happening.
The squeezing of her neck abruptly let up and she gasped down air. Now that the pressure was gone, her neck hurt more, every breath slicing into her damaged windpipe. But at least she could breathe now. At least she was alive.
The aggressive buzzing in her ears resided somewhat, and the sounds of the rain gradually permeated back into her brain. She became aware of someone sobbing, and slowly realised that the noise was coming from her.
Tom continued to grope her body, tearing the pyjama bottoms off her legs. Roughly, he shoved her thighs apart and rammed his body between them. Flick was too weak to protest, her limbs like lead, her throat too tender to scream.
“Tom,” she croaked, trying to push him off her, but she was as weak as a baby bird.
Above her, his face was a shadowy blur, the dark night and whatever rage that consumed him twisting his features into that of a stranger’s. His hard cock nudged her dry vagina and she uselessly squirmed beneath him, pushing pathetically at his broad chest.
“Tom,” she gasped again.
Why wasn’t he speaking? Not a single sound escaped his lips – his silence was utterly terrifying, almost as terrifying as what he was doing to her.
Through her haze of panic, she became aware of him reaching down, leaning over the side of the bed. She took that opportunity to renew her struggles, kicking and squirming and beating at his chest. But his torso was as solid as a brick-wall. Never, in her wildest imaginings, did she think that she would ever live to see the day where his considerable strength would be used against her.
The muscles of his hard chest bunched beneath her pounding fists as he smashed something repeatedly against the wooden floor. The modest light that the mobile-phone had omitted blinked out, plunging the bedroom into blackness. It took her a second to work out that it was the phone he was smashing against the floor, and when another bout of lightning lit up the room, she saw the smashed phone in his hand, held high above his head. At the exact same moment he bought down his arm in one fluid motion, the room plunged into blackness once more.
Searing pain exploded in her chest and all that left her mouth was a strangled sob, her throat still too damaged to scream.
A distant part of her mind realised that he was using the jagged edge of the destroyed phone as a weapon. As a knife. That he was cutting in a line down her torso, starting from between her breasts and travelling all the way down to the top of her groin. Hot wetness flooded her torso, dripping over her sides. She could feel her blood pumping, pulsing in time to her pounding heart. The pain aside, it was the strangest thing to be able to feel her very lifeforce leaving her.
Only dimly was she aware of his weight shifting on top of her, for the pain in her chest and stomach blotted out everything. Almost everything, anyway. Unfortunately, despite the agony she was in, there was no escaping the fact that her husband – the man who she adored and had promised to love, honour and obey forever – was raping her.
His cock rammed into her, her vagina burning and her lower gut cramping with her dryness. More lightning lit up the room, and in those few seconds, she saw more than she could ever want to. His chest was sheened in her blood, and his eyes were half-closed in rapture.
Fresh agony exploded in her stomach, accompanied by the most horrendous tugging sensation.
His hands are inside me, came the jolting thought.
She threw back her head to let out the most almighty howl, but all that came out was a rattling sound. That hard buzzing was back in her ears, filling her brain with madness and death.
She was slipping away on a tide of blackness, even the buzzing in her head was dimming now. The pain was still there, but it was less intense.
I’m dying, came the strangely detached thought.
When the final wave of blackness washed over her, she allowed herself to drift with it until her thoughts stilled and the pain was no more.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I never go to sleep, but I keep waking up…
Flick sat bolt upright on the bed with a gasp, that one, strange thought rattling around in her head in the aftermath of her nightmare. The panic attack was acute – she couldn’t catch her breath and she was so sure that for a second there, her heart had stopped beating. Now it slammed against her ribcage, as fast as terrified rabbit’s. She clutched her chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
What the hell arse kind of dream was that?
The residue of it clung to her, seedy and grotesque, sickening her to the core. Tom’s face, his features contorted in fury and lust, blazed in her mind.
How could I dream such a thing?
She discovered that she was trembling, and subconsciously, her hand rested on the spot between her breasts where he had first cut her. She could feel her heart slamming against the palm of her hand through the thick flannel material of her pyjamas.
Next to her, Tom lay on his back, snoring softly. The sight of him, the normality of it, served as an equilibrium, and her breathing and heartrate approached somewhere near normal.
Just breathe… In… Out… In… Out…
Slowly, as she matched her breathing to his, her heart-beat returned to normal and her head stopped with the terrifying swimming. She could feel herself landing, coming back to herself.
Tom continued with his snoring, oblivious to her plight. She almost woke him, then thought better of it. He must be tired, it would be selfish of her. Instead, she reached out to place the flat of her hand over his chest. His skin was warm to the touch, his chest hair scratchy and familiar, the steady thump of his heart against her palm reassuring.
Comforted by his touch, the last vestiges of the nightmare slowly fell away from her, until it no longer felt so real.
It was just a nightmare. Just a freaky-ass nightmare…
Not wanting to disturb Tom, she gently rolled off the bed. Now her weight was gone, Tom rolled onto his side in the middle of the bed, the sides of which threatening to engulf him because the damn thing was so deflated.
Lying on the floor next to the mattress, she reached up under her pillow, fumbling around for her phone. When her fingers grazed the cool plastic, she shuddered in disgust, remembering the vile nightmare. She remembered how he had smashed the phone on the ground, then used the jagged edge of it to open her up…
Sighing heavily, she retrieved it and turned it on. Flick frowned in confusion at the screen.
What the fuck?
The time on the screen blinked 15.33. How the hell had they managed to sleep so late? Christ, she hadn’t slept into the afternoon like this since she was a teenager. Her natural instinct was to shake Tom awake in a panic, but she resisted the urge. All too vividly, she remembered what had happened the last time she had woken him up.
You’re scared of him, a dark little voice whispered in her mind.
No. Of course she wasn’t, that was just plain silly.
Irritated at herself for the ridiculous nightmare and for being so edgy, she got to her feet. She would have a shower and a coffee, and then she would wake up T
om.
I can’t believe we’ve lost the whole bloody day.
Shit, they must’ve been more knackered than she realised. And was it any wonder, she reasoned, with everything that was happening right now?
With a final glance at her peacefully sleeping husband and grabbing the same dress that she had been wearing yesterday, she headed downstairs.
After the hot shower, she felt more human. She stood by the boiling kettle in the kitchen, thanking the Gods of electricity that they had deigned to reconnect them. All was quiet outside now that the storm had passed.
Too quiet, came the strange thought.
She went to the French-doors, knowing that she should throw them open and push back the shutters to let in some natural light. Yet for some unfathomable reason, she was reluctant to.
I never go to sleep. But I keep waking up.
“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered under her breath.
How many times now had she had that crazy-arse thought? Because it was really beginning to get on her tits. Aggressively, she shoved open the doors and then the shutters, like that action alone would dislodge any unwelcome thoughts.
Outside, the sky was grey. The vast expanse of their garden lifted her spirits a little; having lived in a city most of her adult life, all that space really was a revelation.
I can’t believe all this land is ours.
But something didn’t feel right. Flick frowned, not able to put a finger on the source of her discomfort. Everything looked normal, but it didn’t feel right. Not a breath of wind stirred the tall trees that lined either side of the vast garden. Not a goddam breath.
In fact, the more she looked at the innocuous scene, the stranger everything felt. And then it hit her what was wrong. The deathly silence.
There are no birds.
“What are you doing?”
The sound of Tom’s voice made her jump and she spun round in indignation.
“For God’s sake! I swear, I am going to fucking kill you if you do that to me one more time.”
“Sorry,” he said, his hands raised. “Are you making coffee?”
She noticed how relaxed he seemed – far more so than he had for days. All he wore was his underpants, and normally she would’ve delighted in the sight of his near naked body. Not today though. Today, the sight of all that skin made her stomach clench in apprehension.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked, all too vividly remembering her own hellish night.
“Yeah. Best sleep I’ve had for ages. Storm must’ve soothed me.”
She turned away from him because the kettle had boiled. He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.
She flinched, her entire body stiffening in his arms.
“Baby? What’s wrong?”
“The birds aren’t singing and I’m tired.”
And last night, you raped and murdered me.
“The birds aren’t singing? Honey, are you feeling okay?”
“Just dandy.”
Pointedly, she reached for the kettle with one hand, and with the other she prised his fingers from her waist. He didn’t protest, because she was holding the kettle.
Cuddles and kettles don’t mix.
All too clearly, she remembered how she had once said that and it had been met by his incredulous laughter. The daft phrase had stuck, becoming one of their cute couple in-jokes.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as she poured out the instant coffee. “What did you mean by the birds aren’t singing?”
She turned around to face him. “I didn’t mean anything. Just that they aren’t.”
Tom went to the French-doors and stood in the open doorway. He stood there, still and silent for a moment, before turning around to face her, his thick eyebrows knotted together in concern. She didn’t like that look; he was looking at her like she was crazy.
“But they are singing.”
Glancing behind him, she saw that the tops of the trees were rustling in a light breeze. And yes, she too could now hear the birds cheeping.
She turned her back to him and leaned against the countertop, not wanting him to see the way her hands trembled.
Had she imagined the silence?
Am I losing my mind?
“Flick?”
His breath stirred the tiny hairs on the back of her neck, and she gripped the countertop until her knuckles turned white, a shudder coursing through her.
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
She allowed him to hold her, but she didn’t turn around. In that moment, she wasn’t sure that she could stand to look at him, because all she could think about was that damned nightmare.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Welcome,” Felicity said as she opened the door. “Do come in. Quite the storm last night, wasn’t it?
“It certainly was,” Flick replied, stepping inside, closely followed by Tom.
In the wide hallway, she kissed Flick on both cheeks, as was the French custom, before turning her friendly smile onto Tom.
“Hello, Tom, it’s lovely to meet you,” she said, standing on tiptoes so that she could kiss him, too.
“You too,” Tom answered brightly. “And thanks so much for inviting us round tonight.”
“Oh, believe me, the pleasure is all ours.”
She’s different, tonight.
The odd thought slammed into her mind, just like it had done when she had stood looking out at her back-garden earlier. Again, it wasn’t anything that she could quite place, just the overriding feeling that something was somehow off.
You’re turning into a crazy lady….
She smiled brightly at the hostess, forcing herself to be normal. Felicity was chatting away as she led them down the short hallway:
“Mary and Alan are here, but Roger and the kids have been on a jolly down to Brantom. They should be back any minute now. I must confess, it’s been nice to prepare dinner without them getting in my hair.”
Mary and Alan were all smiles as the stood up from the long sofa when they entered the vast room.
“Hello, dear,” Mary said in that ever so vaguely patronising way of hers. “We’re so glad you could make it tonight, aren’t we Alan?”
“Why yes, dear,” he enthused, nodding his head like one of those moronic wobbly-headed dogs one occasionally saw on the back-shelf of cars.
Mary and Flick met in the middle of the room and greeted each other with a kiss to each cheek. The men shook hands and Flick tried not to wince when she had to kiss Alan.
When she extracted herself from Alan, she took in the opulent surroundings. The arched ceiling had to be at least twenty feet high at its highest point, and a six foot, Medieval tapestry depicting a castle hung from one wall. The décor was a mix of old and modern, the type of fusion one might expect to see on the cover of Ideal Home magazine.
An oversized, oblong wood-burner took up most of the wall space opposite the kitchen area, set in a huge, grey-brick, modern fireplace.
It looks like a coffin.
The strange thought made her shiver.
Yet as grand as it was, it wasn’t at all how she had pictured the inside of Felicity and Roger’s house.
“Your home is beautiful,” Flick said, wide-eyed and most sincere. “I know your house is bigger than ours, but I had no idea it was this big.”
“I know, it’s deceptive isn’t it? Most things are.”
Her words struck Flick as odd, and that ill-formed sensation of discordance, of strangeness, twisted in her guts.
“Our guests look thirsty, wouldn’t you say, Mary?” Alan said to his wife.
“Why yes, indeed they do.”
Mary smiled, and for some inexplicable reason, the skin on the back of Flick’s neck tightened. There was something nasty in that smile; a flash of something mean-spirited in her pale-blue eyes and an edge of manic cruelty in that too-wide grin…
Then just as quick, the troubling look was gone, like it had neve
r been there at all.
And now I’m seeing things.
Mary was just a sweet, little old lady standing before her, bright-eyed and eager for a night of gossip and a good dinner.
Felicity clapped her hands together once and Flick flinched. It struck her as rather an odd thing to do and she glanced over at Tom who stood next to her. His expression was relaxed, friendly, and blank, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Why can’t he see how weird everyone’s acting?
“You are right, dear Alan,” Felicity said. “Would you kindly tend to our guests while I check on dinner?”
“Of course. Lend me a hand, old boy?” he said to Tom.
“Sure.”
The two men walked over to the other side of the room, where in the corner the silver drink’s tray sat atop the Art Deco cabinet. Next to the cabinet were the French-doors that led out to the vast expanse of back-garden.
“Let’s sit down,” Mary said.
“Okay.”
But Flick remained rooted to the spot, her eyes glued to the back of Felicity’s retreating figure.
She’s walking differently.
Flick had only briefly met the woman yesterday, but she was sure that she had moved a lot slower then. Right now, she was flying around like a twenty-year-old, not a woman in her sixties.
Maybe she’s been at the red wine, or something.
A stainless-steel countertop the size of a bar, and vertical, dark-oak beams separated the kitchen from the rest of the room. Flick watched as Felicity dodged round the bar, and, partially hidden by the crisscrossing beams, opened the door to the wide, head-height oven set into the wall.
A waft of rich, red wine sauce, garlic, cooking red meat and generally mouth-watering deliciousness drifted her way, making her stomach rumble and her nostrils flare.
“Dear? Shall we?”
As she spoke, Mary reached out to gently touch her arm and the near-irresistible impulse to snatch her arm away assaulted her.