✔𝚩𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝚩𝛐𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 ➳ 𝚩𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝚩𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬

31║𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎

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It hits her before her vision returns. There's a thorn in her side stuck so deeply she's bleeding out and every part of her insides sit amiss, everything jostles to the side and hurts. Every part of her body hurts and she whimpers as her vision begins catching up with her consciousness. The left one refuses to open fully and she becomes aware of the swelling in her face, like her pulse is much stronger in specific areas.

She's in a dark room. Tied to what feels like a chair with strips or something else that is both strong and hurting her. The smell of blood in the air could be coming from her or from someone else, maybe her nose began bleeding and the dried crimson liquid disguises other horrendous scents which might be found in the place.

Olivia isn't scared. Brock always has a goal and he's gotten her to the brink of death before. Sure, her body feels scared, and adrenaline begins pumping while she tries to disclose her own location, but her mind is gone. There's only the same familiar cold as she surveys herself, investigating her wounds. She must know whether to keep fighting or if it's too late. The knife stuck into the side of her body has been left in place. That's good. Take it out and she'd be dead in minutes. Brock was careful too, cruelly so, didn't hit any major organs but perhaps that's only for his own benefit.

"Morning princess."

Her skin prickles as he speaks. Somewhere in the room, only his echo letting her know that he might be somewhere to the left of her, but she could be wrong. Brock begins walking and she tries to turn her head but pain crashes through her. From the base of her neck, back, and shoulders, and she frowns. It's not one of the usual places he would hurt her. And that, that scares her.

"How'd you sleep? Really good I bet, always do when you got your man close to you, isn't that right?" He grins and grabs her chin, turning her face towards him. She cries out in pain as he presses into the quickly forming and swelling bruises, only laughing at the fact. "Sorry, did that hurt?"

Blinding lights flash past her eyes as he strikes her across the face, chair rocking and he has to grab it to keep her from falling to the ground like a heavy log.

"Fucking answer me!"

"What do you want, Brock?" She asks, tears rolling down her cheeks while she tries to keep her voice as spiteful as possible. "I left you. We're not together."

"Oh no, princess, you got it all wrong," he chuckles, "you don't leave the people you love, that isn't how it works. You stick by them through good and bad. Don't you remember how good we had it? I mean, you think anyone else can give you that?"

He stares directly into her eyes and even after all of this time, Olivia feels herself hesitating, like she's supposed to agree with him and say he's right. She doesn't say it, wills herself not to, but it's enough of a defeat for her and Brock sees the change. He's not too gone on drugs or alcohol to notice every little change in her beaten facial features. However, she still smells it on him, the beer mixing with the bad breath of no personal hygiene. Through the low light she still sees the bruises in the bend of his elbow, obvious from where he's overused his own veins, stuck hundreds of needles into them and probably missed too many times. It's a cruel horrible miracle he hasn't died yet.

"See, he hasn't got your head all messed up yet. We're gonna go back home, just you and me. Remember how we used to talk about kids? That's what we'll do, and you won't have to think about any of this. Just you and me, baby."

She shakes her head. It's a nightmare, all of this is a nightmare, and she can't wait for it to be over. Someone has to be coming for her, they have to know, and she just needs to wait until they burst through the doors to save her. Brock laughs again and reaches down. Finger's tapping at the – fuck, that thorn wasn't something she imagined. His finger glides over the handle of the knife stuck into the side of her body. The smell of blood might be her own, slowly dripping down the remainder of the blade not lodged in her body and onto the cement flooring. She's on borrowed time.