Free Blackened by A.E. Richards

deeply, sticky hot breath condensing upon my cold lips. He gazes deep into my eyes, into my very soul, and I look away, terrified he will see beneath my calm exterior to the raw, frantic part that I try so hard to contain.
    “Beautiful Lisbeth,” he purrs.
    His large hand presses my thigh and begins to slide upwards inch by inch, journeying to my most private part.
    “Tonight you must prepare your things for a long journey.”
    I dare a downward glance and see that it is actually his cigar resting upon my upper thigh, not his hand. For a moment, I sense he is unaware of what he is doing, but then he wraps his strong arm about my shoulders and pulls me into him so tightly that I can scarcely draw breath.
    Villette is an ineffective barrier; she lies at my back, clawing my dress.
    I try to pull away but his grip tightens. His fingers dig into my upper arm reigniting old bruises.
    “Tonight we venture to my home together. A new life for you. Are you not thrilled at the prospect? I myself feel rather excited to discover more and help you find yourself once again.”
    My throat will not work, which perhaps is good because inside I am screaming.
    His hand is on the back of my neck, fingers clasping like scorpion pincers, pressing into the taut, tender muscle. He bends his head and I swear he is going to force himself upon me, but instead he rips a loose thread off my collar and tosses it onto the bed.
    “I know this is a lot for you to take in all at once. I shall take my leave. I look forward to travelling with you tonight. It will be a cold night so dress accordingly.”
    Suddenly his lips are on my cheek – once, twice, thrice he kisses me. Wet, lingering lip-prints, marking his territory, claiming his prize.  
    He exits the room with a confident, arrogant stride.
    I curl up into a quivering ball hugging Villette tight to my chest, my cheeks transformed into a waterfall. I cannot stop crying. I rock back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, hugging my little kitten tighter and tighter, taking what comfort I can from her soft warm body.
    Father has clearly had enough. To think he can so easily and heartlessly toss me aside brings shudders of pain racking through me; misery; into blistering injustice - how dare he discard me like a common whore! How dare he abandon me! My body folds in upon itself like a snapped puppet; I am a hunchback; my hands and feet scrape together, my arms pop with ribbons of muscle, my nails dig half-moons into my scalp drawing ripe beads of blood. Something snaps inside me, and for hours I lie rocking. Rocking, rocking, rocking...
    Eventually my fit subsides. My body unfolds and flops back into the bed. My tears ebb and my breathing fritters into steadier waves.
    I stroke Villette's dandelion fur. Her body is not as warm as usual. Through swollen eyes I look down my chin at her tiny body.
    She looks strange. I stare at her; where is the rise and fall of her little chest? Why is she not moving? 
    A sob catches in my throat and for a split hair of a second I know agony like no other; I have killed her! By my own hands I have smothered my own little girl.
    But abruptly she squirms to life and scrambles up to my face, resting her paws on my cheeks.
    I am dead with relief.
     

C HAPTER 9

B READ K NIFE
    I return from the water closet to find Jean-Bernard in my bedroom sitting on the bed. In one hand he holds a squirming Villette, in the other, the bread knife. Father silently walks away leaving me alone with the French man.
    “I found this under your pillow, Lisbeth. Just exactly what did you plan on doing with it? After all, there are plenty of knives in my home.”
    My mouth has no voice. I stand there, aware that the door at my back is closed but not locked.
    “Please answer,” he says stepping towards me.
    I lower my eyes to the floor, notice the dusty grains filled with years of dead skin. My body begins to tremble and I cannot make it stop. My eyes dart from the bread