Page 100 of Phobia

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

I’m going to die. He’s going to kill me.

With his free hand, he digs in his pocket and withdraws a knife. I recognize it. The same one he used all those years ago. When he cut me. When he drew blood.

Tears come to my eyes as he presses it against my neck. I shake my head in earnest, begging him. Begging him not to hurt me.

“Take off your clothes,” he says gruffly, and I know my eyes go wide in panic. We’re in the open, outside, where anyone can see. He doesn’t care. He looks at me like an object he owns. Something he can do whatever he wants with.

“Do it.” The knife dips tighter against my skin, and I can feel it. I can feel the blood pooling. My knees go wobbly, my head’s a mess. I sway on my feet. My hands, unrestrained, fall to my sides, shaking so badly I doubt they’d obey me if I tried to make them do Mickey’s bidding.

He sees my panic as disobedience, and his eyes grow angry. “You think I'm playing around here? You have any idea how long I’ve thought about this?”

“Mmmm,” I beg against his palm. Tears fall down my face. In his anger, his grip has slackened some, freeing my nose so I can at least catch my breath.

“I’ll cut you out of them, then. And if you scream, I’ll hurt you. I’ll cut out your tongue.”

My lips tremble as with one hand he holds my back against the wall, and with the other, he begins slicing through my shirt, starting at the collar and working his way down. The cold of the knife traces my skin, and I gasp and shiver, helpless to stop him, completely frozen in place. This isn’t happening. Itishappening.

He’s huffing and groaning with each new patch of skin that’s exposed, running his palms all over me, settling first on one peaked nipple, then the other. He pinches them hard and twists, so I squirm and bite my lip to keep from crying out. All the while, he keeps cutting and yanking.

My shirt is gone in a matter of minutes, and my chest is exposed to the cool night air. Goose bumps shoot up all over. I’m openly sobbing now, my cries muffled and silent. Snot runs down face with my tears, but he doesn’t care. He just keeps at it, slipping his knife inside the waist of my pants, slicing down my pant leg.

As the fabric falls to my ankles and I stand naked before him, Mickey lets out a groan of satisfaction. It ripples through his chest, deep and hungry. “Fuck,” he whispers and leans in to press his body against mine. “Jesus, fuck.”

His knife traces my body, down my stomach, poking into my navel, then over the curve of my hip and between my legs. He picks at my cock and balls with the point, running it over the sensitive skin so it pricks, and I whimper.

“Please don’t do this.” I’m naked in an alleyway, and it’s cold outside, and I’m with my murderous half brother who wants to hurt me. Rape me. Possibly kill me. And there’s no one around, and even if there were, I’d be mortified for them to see me like this. So exposed and vulnerable and terrified. Helpless. Always helpless.

“You know I’ve always liked to see you bleed,” he grits into my ear, rubbing himself against me, and even through his clothes, I can feel his hardness. “When Angelo and Dom would pick you apart piece by piece, make you cry until the well ran dry. Until there was nothing left.”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” I choke out in a panic. No blood. Please. No blood. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand to see it. I might die just from the sight. Terror swells in my chest, so it feels like my heart will burst. More than being naked, more than being raped. “Please don’t make me bleed, Mickey.”

He grins, and I know it’s over. Taking hold of both of my hands in one of his own, he whirls me around and shoves me forward, deeper into the alley, into shadows and darkness that obscure our forms. Behind a dumpster, he rams my chest hard against the wall. No one passing by would see us. Which both relieves and terrifies me.

No one will come to my rescue. No one ever has.

I’m bent at the waist, face pushed against the brick, and he manhandles my ass with one hand while the other lays flat across my back, holding me in position. At his disposal. Then the palm that strokes my cheek moves to his belt buckle. I can hear it as it unlatches and tugs.

“No!” A burst of adrenaline, of self-preservation, shoots through me as I attempt to wrench free. I manage to slip from his grasp and put a few inches between us before he throws himself at me, an angry curse ripping from his lips.

“Fucking slut,” he hisses as he gathers me back into his arms, his grasping fingers tangling in my hair. I cry out because it hurts, and I don’t want this. I don’t want him to touch me.

Then his knife goes into my side, its tip piercing the flesh of my stomach, and I gasp. As it withdraws, I feel it. The hot gushing of blood that accompanies the pulse of pain. Life slipping free. He’s going to kill me.

I lose it.

I begin to thrash, kicking and screaming and fighting with all that I have. I’m small, always have been, but if there’s any strength in my muscles and any force in my limbs, I’m using it to push him away, to get free of him.

“Help! Help!” I cry out into the night, careless of his previous words, of the look of absolute rage that mars his otherwise handsome features.

He slaps me then, hard, downing me to my knees, seeing stars. I feel dizzy, and my jaw aches as though he popped it from its hinge. I try to gather my bearings, but he’s taking control again, this time with a fire in his movements, a violent and terrible rage consuming him. He’s livid.

Shoving me to the ground, he grips both of my wrists in one of his hands while his other begins to work on his belt again. I shiver and shake, but I’m spinning. I can’t focus. The wound to my side is weeping crimson, and I can’t stand to think of it. I feel sick. I’m going to vomit. I’m going to faint.

“You’ve done it now.” The sound of his belt sliding through the loops of his pants jars my senses back to reality. He cracks it like a whip, and I tremble with fear. I’ve heard that sound before. I know what comes next.

Before I can even anticipate the pain, it's lancing through me hot and sharp and brutal. I can’t help the tears that slip from my eyes. “Stop! Please!”