Free Best Dressed Lie (Keisha Jackson) by Kimberly Batiste

roughly kissed me with his chapped
lips. He sucked the blood out of my mouth.
He held my bloody slobber in his mouth and then yanked
my mouth opened and spit it back in. I gagged and begged,
“Please stop!”
He clamped my lips shut, forcing me to swallow. “Shut
up!” he demanded.
He took the palm of his hand and covered my face, then
pushed me backwards
nearly knocking me unconscious
again.
“Get your ass up!” he said, raising his fist.
Everything was a blur, so I lay there.
“Get up now!” he said pounding his fist into the palm of
his hand.
I cried so hard, I could barely breathe. “Somebody
please…please, help me!” my throat was burning. Sluggishly I
tried to get up. I was too weak.
“That’s all right, stay right where you are,” he said, heated.
He stripped down his dirty, white, rugged jeans splattered
with my blood. He lit a cigarette, placed it in the corner of his
mouth, stood over, pointed at his penis then shouted, “Come
slob on my knob!” He was drunk and musty, with old dried
up mucus from previous sex, matted and tangled in his pubic
hair. “I can’t move,” I said, lying on my back.
“ You better not move!” he said, flicking ashes on my
body. I slowly made my way up. I was dizzy.
“Bring your ass here,” he said, grabbing the back of my
hair. He dragged me up, leaned my head back, and put his
cigarette out on my forehead. He scorched my skin.
“Ouch…Ouch!” I screamed, whacking his hand.
“Shut up,” he said, forcing his penis down my throat,
violently moving my head back and forth.
I started gagging and vomiting from the pressure hitting
my tonsils. “Look at me!” he yelled, looking into my watering,
swollen, red eyes as he tortured me. I vomited and he let go of
me. I fell weakly to the floor.
“Get up, you’re not done!”
I tried to yell, but I couldn’t. I knew I could not fight him
and even if I tried, he was going to kill me. He tried to find
something
to
punish
me
with
for
throwing
up
and
interrupting his arousal. He angrily stomped up the stairs and
talked shit as he went.
“You better not move, whore!” I stayed there watching him
go up the steps. I closed my eyes as tightly as I could. I knew
that once he returned, the beating would be worse. I heard
him rambling through the open door.
“Just what I need,” he said, stomping back down the stairs
with one of Randy’s fifty pound weights.
He made his way back down the steps one at a time. He
stood over me breathing like he’d finished a marathon. He
held the weight around one end with both hands. He raised it
in the air as high as he could…
“Police, put down the weapon!” The officer stood in the
doorway, pointing his gun at him. I was in too much pain to
make a sound. I inhaled deeply and exhaled with more tears.
Thank God! I thought.
The policeman
gradually walked down
the fragile,
wooden steps one by one towards the psychopath. The police
officer stared at him like a hawk never moving his gun out of
the murderer’s face. He stood there, looking down at me with
hatred. “Put down your weapon now!” the police officer
demanded. He moved closer.
The masked man didn’t move. He made a sound in the
back of his throat and then leaned down toward my face and
spit in my eyes. The cop grabbed him roughly from behind.
The 50 pound weight came crashing down towards me, but
thank fully fell to one side at the last moment.
The two men wrestled as the officer tried to subdue him.
He broke loose; head butted the policeman and took off up the
stairs. The officer
fell
backwards
and called
for backup.
Luckily, several cops heard the call and arrived to the scene.
As he bombarded his way out the door they started shouting,
“Get down…down now!...Now!” The police officer tried to
corner him, but he managed to get away. They fired several
gunshots and chased him through the woods. He was too fast
and got away. They didn’t know whether a bullet hit him or
not. The ambulance finally