His stark naked body rested on the warehouse floor, his blood no longer in it. His blood was slowly seeping into the concrete. It would leave a bitch of a stain to remove. She’d probably stabbed him thirty times. The knife stuck out of his body where it had been sunk between his legs. That would have hurt, except he was probably already dead.
She sat on the warehouse floor, maybe ten feet away, not a stitch on. Her knees tucked up to her chin. Dried tears all over her face. She sat there, rocking back and forth, mumbling, “He wouldn’t stop. I asked him to stop. I said no. I did. He wouldn’t stop.” What was obviously his blood was all over her.
There was no doubt she’d killed him.
Next to her was a manilla envelope with beg red letters on the outside that said, “Any Questions?”
The envelope was full of pictures of him, pushing her around, touching her, stripping her. Of him pushing her up against crates, shelves, the wall, even the floor. And doing anything he wanted.
I took off my coat, put it around her shoulders, and made sure she heard me. “He got what he deserved.” Then I called for a lady doc to come help her, knowing the legal system in the country would soon make her life hell, and some lawyer rich.
Life sure can be a bitch sometimes, can’t it?
I wrote this for Siobhan Muir‘s #ThursThreads, Week 63. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are good reading.