Page 245 of I Will Break You
“What is this?” I cry.
He pulls out and inspects his grimy digits, which protrude from fingerless gloves. Then he turns to the camera and grins, revealing a face covered in dirt and a mouthful of broken teeth.
My chest constricts and my breath turns shallow. What the fuck is Xero doing, inviting this man to touch me?
The man pulls out a cock that looks even dirtier than his face and strokes it to hardness. I clap a hand over my mouth and gag as he kneels between my spread legs and drags my unconscious body closer.
Xero just stands there, looking on. I want the camera to pan up and show his face because nothing about this situation makes sense. This can’t be Xero. Xero who was so possessive that he murdered or maimed any man who got too close. Xero who threatened to kill Reverend Tom just for being friendly. Xero who fulfilled my exhibitionism fantasy while covering up my pussy with his hand.
Xero, who now does nothing while the filthy man fucks my unconscious body so hard that it jerks. I back toward the door, my eyes filling with tears.
This can’t be right. It has to be a hallucination. Yes, that must be it. I just sniffed some chemical that’s triggering a visual delusion to sabotage my relationship. Because that’s what my mind does. Sabotage.
Every time I try to hook up with a man, Mr. Lawson pops up to freak me out. Then I thrash and scream loud enough for the man to consider me a lost cause.
Xero’s presence is too consuming. I would fuck him even if an army of ghosts stood over us and yelled at me to stop, so my brain just conjured something new to keep me single.
The black-haired man comes with a roar, and Xero grabs him by the hood and drags him off my unmoving body. I can’t even exhale a sigh of relief because a second man walks into the frame. His pants are already around his ankles, and his pale legs are marred with dark streaks.
He bends between my legs, his head finally coming into the frame, revealing hawkish features shadowed by messy brown hair. My hands rise to cover my face. I can’t watch.
I observe the rest of the scene through my fingers, wondering if my brain will stop malfunctioning and show what really happened that night. Xero said he carried me out of the graveyard into a bath, but since when was he ever completely truthful?
Xero could have warned me he planned on skipping his execution, but he let me believe he was dead. Then he spent weeks driving me crazy by pretending to be a ghost. He hated me because I tried to publish a book about our relationship. For him, that was the ultimate betrayal.
When Dale and his three friends broke into my house to carry me off into a snuff movie, Xero only intervened because they were spoiling his revenge. He wanted to be the only man to make my life a misery.
As the second man pounds into my body, Xero beckons a third forward. He crawls on his hands and knees, naked from the waist down. He’s blond with a handlebar mustache so thick it almost looks fake.
The third man turns my head to the side and slides his erection into my mouth. As he fucks my throat, a fourth enters the frame to suck on my nipples. Nausea clogs my guts. I double over, spilling the contents of my stomach on the floor.
“Xero,” I croak. “Why?”
The answer is simple: Revenge.
Xero knows my weaknesses. My mental state. My sexual trauma. He knows I was abused by an older man and created this video to inflict the maximum amount of psychological pain.
Step one was public sex followed by an unconscious, non-consensual gang-bang. So, last night was step two, where I had public sex in the Ministry of Mayhem, followed by a romp in front of multiple cameras. Step three will be to have sex with those filthy men while screaming and conscious, then step four will be a trip to the torture table for a round of electric shock.
Just like the child in the picture.
My gaze flicks to the crime board, where the younger versionof me lies covered in electrodes and with a pair of hands pressing probes into her temples.
Not again.
Not ever.
I can’t allow that to happen.
The past bleeds into the present, and I see Mr. Lawson’s bony face, feel his damp hands over my skin.
My flesh crawls with his phantom touch, and my vision blurs with red.
I move without thinking, my body on autopilot, picking up the bottles of chloroform and somnochlorate.
Mr. Lawson’s slimy face resounds through my mind, merging with an image of Xero. Powered by mania, I walk to the kitchen, grab the washing-up bowl, and gather everything else that looks flammable.
Butter.