Harrowed

They sit across from each other, one man, one woman. The man has a knife in his hand which he is using to cut slices from an apple and then with it, feeding himself the slices. He holds the knife out to the woman, an apple slice sitting atop it. Her mouth is watering visibly but she shakes her head and curls her lip up into a sneer. She doesn't want anything from the man.

He shrugs and continues to eat the apple, the knife's blade flashing every time he twists it to slide another piece into his mouth. Though she hates herself for it, she flinches each time the glint catches her eye.

When the apple is nothing but core, he stands and strolls across the room to dispose of it. After he drops it into the trash he wipes the front of his hand along his thigh and then repeats the motion with the back of his hand. Then he does the same with the knife on his opposite thigh and sits back down, resting his forearms across the back of his chair, the knife hanging casually from his left hand.

She continues to glare at him, growing angrier with each second she is forced to see that bemused look immutably plastered across his smug face. He holds up a finger in a gesture that asks her to wait a moment and heads toward a refrigerator in a dark section of the room and returns with a glass of milk. As with the apple slice, he offers this to her in what she can only imagine is a conciliatory gesture. Unlike with the apple slice, she accepts his offering and greedily downs the drink.

He holds out his hand for her to return the glass but she refuses and moves away from him. Come and get it, she thinks to herself. A shadow briefly crosses his face and he inhales sharply before regaining his usual pristine composure. He lets out a sigh and shakes his head slightly in frustration.

Good, she thinks. She smiles at this little victory. There won't be many more. The man stands up quickly, the screeching of his chair's leg across the concrete startling her. He's so pleased with himself he almost laughs but instead just flashes an idiotic grin as he heads once more into the darkened section of the room. From the darkness, she hears a record starting to turn and drops her head. She knows what's coming next.

As Elvis Pressley's Blue Christmas floats to her ears from across the room, she tries desperately to break the glass she'd refused to hand back to him-to maybe use it as a weapon. But it's thick glass and she can't get any leverage. His footsteps are barely audible over the music but she can tell they're getting closer. Frantically now, she smashes the glass into the floor, praying it breaks before he gets to her.

"Yes, finally," she thinks to herself. The tiniest sliver of glass had broken off and slid across the bare floor. She holds the glass between her thighs and used the broken edge to cut the sutures that he'd sown after he took her hands. She would bleed out now before he could do anything about it-before he could do anything more to her. She was free. A final howl of defiance is caught behind her lips as a boot caves in her skull.