Page 29 of All the Forbidden Things

“My name’s Billie Wild. I’m at—” before I reach the bedroom, I’m pulled back by my hair and swung around. All I see is Michael’s hand coming towards me, holding a gun.

“He has a gun!” I manage to scream into my phone before being punched in my face so hard that my head snaps to the side knocking my phone from my hand. I hear it hit the floor but can see nothing except bright white light as pain shoots through my head and neck.

Despite not being able to see, I kick and make contact with some part of him. He grunts in pain, which spurs me to start throwing punches, but before any of them connect, I’m swung violently by my hair again. This time I crash to the floor.

The stars that were blinding me earlier begin to clear in time for me to see a leather loafer swing my way. I manage to roll slightly but am too slow in pulling up knees, and the first blow hits me in the chest. The second I don’t see coming, but I feel it as I’m kicked in the ribs. The pain is excruciating, and all of the wind is knocked out of my lungs. I fight to breathe, my brain screaming at me not to panic. He has a gun, he’s drunk, and two children are cowering in my bedroom, probably frantic with fear.

“You wanna fuck with me, little girl? You have no idea who you’re messing with. No fucking idea.” Michael puffs out as he pushes his foot onto my stomach.

I heave a couple of times but don’t actually vomit. I keep drawing breath in through my nose until, eventually, my lungs and chest decide to cooperate. And that’s when I become aware of Michael pushing me onto my belly while trying to pull down my pyjama shorts, and a whole new level of fear hits me. I try to remember what I was taught in the couple of lessons Drew gave me on self-defence, and I roll from side to side in an attempt to free myself, but it doesn’t work—Michael is sitting across the backs of my thighs.

I kick my legs up and hit him in the back with my heels, but I can’t get enough force behind the blows to hurt him.

He lifts me by my hips, still yanking at my shorts, and I throw my head back, making contact with his face. He rolls to the side, holding onto his nose with both his hands. I begin to crawl away, all the while looking around for the gun. It’s on the floor beside him. I have no idea how to use it so instead attempt to reach my bedroom. There’s no lock on that door, but there is one on the toilet door inside my en suite.

“You bitch. You fucking bitch.”

My hair and shoulder are again grabbed from behind, and he lifts me off the floor before throwing me down onto my back and straddling my hips.

I fight. With thoughts of Oliver and Amelia and what he might do to them fuelling my instinct to survive this, I fight him with everything I have. I keep moving. Rolling from side to side in a futile attempt at escape, but he’s too heavy, he has me pinned. I slap. I punch.

When he rips off my T-shirt, I claw at his arms. He smacks me hard across the face, catching the corner of my mouth, forcing my teeth to tear through my lip. I see stars again. But still, I keep fighting.

He pulls up my sports bra, and I scream out as loud as I can.

How dare he? How fucking dare he?

Balling my fists, I swing out, and this time, I land blows on each side of his face. The third punch is a direct hit to his mouth, and pain shoots through my hand, around my wrist, and up my forearm as it connects.

He punches me again, and for a few seconds, I see nothing but black.

I fight to come back. Images of my parents, my brother, and my niece dance before my eyes. With everything I have in me, I fight. A noise escapes my throat. It’s feral. Animalistic. It’s all I have left. Again, I swing blindly as the taste of my own blood fills my mouth.

Pain like I’ve never felt before rips through me as Michael’s teeth bite into the flesh of my left breast, but his hands are around my throat and squeezing so hard that the scream I attempt to unleash is just a gurgle as I struggle for breath. There’s only a very tiny pinpoint of light now as the darkness engulfs me.

The lyrics to “Always Here,” a song my brother wrote after the death of our parents, drifts through my mind . . .

Always here, to watch you grow.

Always here, but you might not know.

In times of need, we’ll hold your hand.

We’ll guide the way when it’s your time to go.

The room gets brighter, my vision rights itself, and my mum appears. She holds out her hand, and I reach for it. Both of hers wrap around mine, and I let go. I stop fighting and succumb to the calm, the quiet, the peace that’s offered as I’m embraced by the soft golden glow.

Mel

“Is she up yet?” Calasks, as I hand him his coffee and take in the delicious sight of my hot, sweaty husband after his run on the treadmill. “I thought you said she was opening up the shop? She needs to be ready in an hour.”

“Nope. I knocked on her door when I got up half an hour ago, and I’ve texted her twice,” I tell him.

“What time she get in last night?” Cal opens his laptop and sits on a stool at the kitchen counter.

I sip my own coffee as I study him. I’m not sure if he’s asking because heknowsour daughter didn’t arrive home until three this morning and he’s waiting to see if I’ll lie on her behalf, or if he’s just clueless.

“I’m not sure.” I opt for covering both our asses.