Page 12 of Bad Bishop

Breathe.

Breathe.

He snatched my ankle, yanking me back with force. Flipped me to my back roughly, then used a knife to slash the front of my dress, leaving a trail of hot, searing pain across my skin. I arched, crying out in horror. I kicked and punched him, too panicked to take in his features in the dark. It felt like trying to fight my way out of a fishing net. He was everywhere, all at once, too heavy, too much.

Sharp, frenzy eyes flared in the dark, taking in my bare breasts, my nipples, my stomach.

I recognized those eyes. Had seen them before. Two barrels of a gun, staring back at me.

I cataloged him into memory. Filed every plane of his face, each individual hair in his eyebrows.

I’m going to draw you.

And then I’m going to find you.

And then I’m going to kill you.

If you are stupid enough to let me live after this.

As he pushed my panties down my thighs, a peculiar calm washed over me.

In order for him not to kill me, I had to pretend I didn’t know what was happening to me. If he thought he could get away with it, he’d spare me.

I stopped fighting, letting my muscles lax, forcing my mind to drift elsewhere.

Ischia sunsets. Boat trips. Busy markets. Books. Imma’s grilled prosciutto and mozzarella sandwich.

He pushed a chemical-soaked rag to my face, one hand pressing against my mouth. I held my breath while he slapped my right breast, laughing as his hand skated down to the space between my thighs.

Men are filthy.Mama’s words rang in my head.They make you suffer when they have their hands on you. Never let them.

A lifetime passed. And then another. I became dizzy with lack of oxygen. The rag pressed harder against my mouth and nose. Finally, my traitorous body took a sharp inhale of breath. The chemicals rushed into my system. My eyelids grew heavy, my body slacked. I became a rag doll.

Boneless. Weightless. Defenseless.

My body melted into the sand, my mind drifting to the clouds. I was far away now, somewhere he couldn’t hurt me, no matter how hard he tried.

The last thought to cross my mind was that thisstronzocould still kill me.

My last hope was that he would.

CHAPTER FOUR

LILA

EIGHT WEEKS LATER

For the first few hours every day, everything was blurry.

A fuzzy world devoured at the edges, like I was staring at my reality through a frost-coated window.

This morning was no different.

I pressed my clammy forehead to the cool toilet seat, waiting for the nausea to propel me into another round of projectile vomiting.

The only thing to come out at this point were acidic fluids. I barely ate, and whatever I did consume I ended up retching soon after.

A small, cold hand pressed against my back, twisting away damp ringlets of hair that had stuck to my skin. I stared up at my mother miserably.