Fighting My Way Back

1. Gwen

CHAPTER 1

GWEN

I place the t-shirt on top of the stack inside my suitcase and tug the zipper closed. After three days of packing up my things between my finals, I’ve finally finished.

I hear my phone ringing in the kitchen and hurry out to answer the call. My best friend’s name shows on the screen before I answer. “Hey, Demi.”

“Hi, Gwennie.”

She’s the only person besides my dad who can get away with using that nickname.

“What’s up?”

“I’m counting down the minutes until you’re back in South Carolina where you belong. When are you leaving?” she asks.

“I don’t want to hit traffic if I can avoid it, so I think I’ll head out in the morning around nine. With any luck, I’ll be home between one and two.”

“Does that mean we can go out tomorrow night?” she asks.

I laugh. “You know my parents are going to want to see me. I haven’t been home since Christmas break.”

“Okay. Friday night, then?”

“Absolutely. I can’t wait to see your gorgeous face.” Opening the refrigerator, I grab a water bottle and shut the door. I turn toward the kitchen island and let out a shriek. “Jerry? What are you doing here?”

“Who’s Jerry?” Demi asks, but I don’t answer.

“How do you know where I live?” I ask, taking a step backward.

“I wanted to talk to you before you left,” he says.

“So, you thought it would be a good idea to break into my apartment?”

“Gwen, what’s going on?” Demi’s tone has turned panicked.

He shrugs. “The door was unlocked.”

“I want you to leave, now. ”

“But I need to talk to you,” he says, walking toward me.

“Jerry, I’m not comfortable with what’s going on here. I’m telling you, if you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.”

He laughs, and the hairs on the nape of my neck rise. He pulls a knife from inside his jacket, and before I can move, he sweeps in, wrapping me up with my back to his chest.

“Don’t hurt me,” I shout.

“Gwen!” Demi yells in my ear before he snatches the phone from my hand and throws it across the room. It slams into the wall and clatters to the floor.

Fuck. What’s happening?

He presses the knife’s sharp tip against the side of my neck, forcing me to keep my breaths shallow. “This is your fault.” The sinewy forearm encircling my stomach tightens, yanking me back into his large frame. His erection is impossible to miss, pressed against my ass. He grinds into me, and my wide-eyed gaze darts around my kitchen, searching for an escape I know I won’t find.

Thoughts flash through my mind like lightning strikes.

He’s going to kill me.

How will my family handle the news of my death?

And my little brother, T.J.? He’s so young he won’t have lasting memories of me.

I’ll never fall in love.

Never get married.

Never have children.

Never…

A single tear rolls down my cheek in solemn acceptance of what’s to come. I won’t let this bastard have more than that. I’m not going to weep and beg for my life. And as for fighting back, I don’t think I could get my limbs to work if I tried. Besides, if I move at all, he’ll slit my throat.

But I’m terrified. God, please give me the strength I need to get through this.

The point of the knife scrapes back and forth across my neck, leaving a trail of surface scratches behind. His hot breath pants in my ear as he repeats, “This is your fault.” His hand slithers under the hem of my shirt, and it’s all I can do to hold back a shiver of revulsion. “Why couldn’t you love me?” he shouts, his spittle spraying my cheek. Digging the tip of the knife into my skin, he drags it across my neck, creating a series of deeper scratches that burn. “I love you,” he whispers. In a flash, he raises the knife, embedding the point in my face about an inch from the outer corner of my eye. I don’t even have time to cry out before he carves a fiery path downward.

Clenching my teeth together, I focus on breathing through the excruciating pain, but a sob slips free.

“Not so pretty now, are you?” he taunts, laughing maniacally.

Blood trails down my face in place of the tears that I won’t cry, but I still don’t move.

“Answer me!” he shouts, spinning me around to face him.

His pupils are black pinpricks against the light blue of his bulging eyes. No doubt some potent drugs are pumping through his veins.

“Answer me.” He growls the command this time, and before I can, he uses his foot to sweep my legs out from under me. The back of my head slams the floor with a sickening thud, and a burst of silver stars shoots across my field of vision.

His shoe meets my ribs in a vicious kick that leaves me gasping for air. “Disrespectful bitch. Why.” Kick. “Won’t.” Kick. “You.” Kick. “Answer.” Kick. “Me.” Kick.

Tears roll down my face, converging with the blood, as I fold myself into the fetal position to protect my battered mid-section from more harm. I’m barely able to draw in a breath, making me think my ribs must be fractured.

He leans over, grips a fistful of my hair, and repeatedly slams my head against the hardwood floor until I’m nauseous and dazed. When he straightens back up, I try to brace myself for his next strike, but I’m fighting to remain conscious.

With every agonizing second that ticks by, I feel my hold on reality slipping away, which is petrifying and welcoming at the same time.

What will he do to me when I’m unconscious?

What does it matter?

I’ll be dead soon.

The black spots dotting my vision expand like a pool of spilled ink. Right before the last of the light is eclipsed, I hear shouting and then the ear-splitting crack of a gunshot.