Fracture || Xmen

2

Warning: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of abuse, violence, and gore.

The car abruptly falls silent and still, the sudden pause only broken by his swift movement as he exits the driver's seat and comes around to my side. Before I can even think to look up, he's yanking me out by the collar of my hoodie, lifting me so my feet dangle, never grazing the ground. You'd think I'd be used to this by now, but the familiar wave of fear always catches me off guard, sweeping over me long before I hit the floor.

With a harsh toss, I'm flung onto the floor a safe distance from him. I scramble to get up, but it's no use; he's on me in an instant, his hand entangled in my hair, slamming me down onto my knees with a violence that sends shockwaves through my body, rattling my teeth despite my best efforts to keep them clenched.

He yanks my head back by my hair, forcing me to face him. Yet, stubbornly, I keep my eyes averted, greeted instead by the blurred sight of the ceiling and then, abruptly, the close-up view of a chair leg near my face. Oh, right. He's hit me. In moments like this, adrenaline becomes a fleeting sanctuary, dulling the pain that I know will soon flood in.

He pulls me up by my hair once more, this time ensuring my gaze is directed towards his chilling, icy blue eyes—the same eyes I see in the mirror, yet so devoid of any warmth when they're fixed on me.

"You worthless piece of shit!" he spits out, his words accompanied by flecks of saliva that hit my face as he draws his hand back for another slap. This time, the pain is immediate—a searing sting across my left cheek, his grip in my hair so tight that my head can't even turn away, forcing me to endure the full force of his rage without escape. "You dare come to my place of work, to... Embarrass me?" His voice rises to a scream, my head forced back so far it strains to swallow, his furious eyes locked on mine, ensuring I miss none of his contempt.

"You don't need me to accomplish that," I manage to retort, my voice straining to rise above a shout, "you seem to handle that perfectly fine on your own, sheriff." The word 'sheriff' comes out tainted with scorned disgust, and barely a moment passes before the sharp pain of another slap sends me face-first to kissing the floor again. The handcuffs have been on so long, they might as well be a part of me now, their grip so tight that my wrists feel numb to any sensation, even as I shift them in a futile attempt for some relief.

The all too familiar sound of Michael's belt unfastening sends a shiver down my spine, a precursor to the familiar dread that builds with each passing second. Sweat gathers on my forehead, mingling with the fear and anticipation as my heart pounds like a drum in my chest.

"This is the last time you'll ever show me up in front of my colleagues, do you understand?!" he bellows, and then comes the sound I dread the most: the sharp whistle of his belt cutting through the air. My body goes rigid, every muscle braced for the impact. When it lands, the pain is all-encompassing, coursing through me with such intensity that I can barely think.

Lying there, cheek pressed against the wooden floor that I've gotten to know intimately in the worst ways, it offers a cold comfort. As a kid, I harbored the childish hope that if I could just meld into the floor, I'd vanish from this reality. Clearly, that never panned out.

The burning sensation across my back is excruciating, yet he obviously isn't satisfied. He never is, his thirst for control, for punishment, remains unquenched. He's never truly satisfied, not as long as I'm aware enough to feel every lash, every blow.

"Take off your jacket."

I let my eyes close for a brief moment, a small respite before the inevitable continuation of his onslaught. Despite the brief pause, the searing pain on my back only intensifies with each passing second.