We Prick You

"Duke’s what you’d call an older man. I’m what you’d call under-age, only he doesn’t know. He thinks I’m 17."

A cautionary tale about a young runaway and the evils of older men.

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8. Punch

The first punch sends me arse over tit over coffee table. My head smacks off the TV cabinet and before the room has stopped spinning, he hauls me to my feet. 

    “Stupid bitch,” he snarls. “I fucking warned you.”

    He throws me across the room and I crash into the edge of the sitting room door. Wailing and pissing myself, I beg him to stop. 

    “I’m sorry,” I say, over and over.

    He just clamps his cold hand over my mouth.

    “Shut up,” he hisses in my ear.

    I grab him, try to hug him, to make it stop, to bring my Duke back. He holds my face to his chest, his heart pounding in my ear.

    “Did you post anything?” he asks. “Anything at all?”

    “No,” I tell him. “I swear down, I just wanted to see…”

    “Fucking stupid,” he mutters, as much to himself as to me. Then he pushes me away, marches over to his laptop and launches it across the room. It smashes against a wall, little bits of black plastic flying everywhere.

    He turns back to face me, the blue of his veins a roadmap across the paleness of his skin. His eyes burn into me, as he paces back across the sitting room. With the back of his right hand, he strokes my face where he punched me. 

    Gently, he tilts my head to one side.

    The bite that follows isn’t gentle, but it doesn’t last long. He spits blood and shoves me to the floor.

    “Can’t even bleed right,” he mutters, before storming out of the flat, slamming the front door behind him. He locks the front door with a key, while I stare at the blood on his floor. My blood.

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