I tried to say something to him, but I
could only squeak. He hurled me into the tub and I cracked my head
against the tile. I cried out and he crossed the bathroom and put his
hand over my mouth and nose and then I couldn't breathe, and my head was
swimming.
"He was naked and hard, and he had the knife in his fist, not like for
slicing, but for stabbing, and his eyes were red from the smoke at the
club, and the bathroom filled with the booze-breath smell, and I sank
down in the tub, shrinking away from him as he grabbed for me.
"He -- *growled*. Saw that I was staring at the
knife. Smiled. Horribly. There's a piece of granite we use for a soap
dish, balanced in the corner of the tub. Without thinking, I grabbed it
and threw it as hard as I could at him. It broke his nose and he closed
his eyes and reached for his face and I wrapped him up in the shower
curtain and grabbed his arm and bit at the base of his thumb so hard I
heard a bone break and he dropped the knife. I grabbed it and ran back
to our room and threw it out the window and started to get dressed."
She'd fallen into a monotone now, but her wingtips twitched and her
knees bounced like her motor was idling on high. She jiggled.
"You don't have to tell me this," he said.
She took off the ice pack. "Yes, I do," she said. Her eyes seemed to
have sunk into her skull, vanishing into dark pits.
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