Free Pretty When She Cries by Sarah Kate Page A

think he would mind if I told him his girlfriend’s a sexy little fuck? That I like taking her hard and fast?”
    A muscled worked in her jaw. She wouldn’t look at him.
    “Does he like it that way, too? Does he like a bit of dirty talk? Does he call you a slut, just when he’s into you, just before you come? Gives you a bit of roughing up, a little bit of, ’you slut’, ’you bitch’, gives you a few slaps? He’d like that, don’t you think?”
    “He’s not like that,” she said.
    “Like what? Like me? Let me tell you something, sweetheart. They’re all like me. You’re nothing but a hole to fuck, just a slut and animal, like all women. You got to remember that to every man you’re nothing but hot cunt. That’s all you’ll ever be.
    “It’s that hungry pussy of yours. That’s what gets you into trouble. It makes it so you can’t help but love the man beatin’ up on you and fuckin’ you, making you want it. That’s what your body is made for, that and giving birth. That’s what men see when they look at you. They all want to stick their cocks in you, even your daddy.”
    Angry tears burned the backs of her eyes, followed by a feeling of panic. He leaped on her and crushed her face in his hand. “You ever look at me that way again, you little bitch, and I’ll cut you so bad your boyfriend couldn’t be paid to let you suck his dick!”
    He shoved her away, and kept eating ice cream as if nothing had happened.
    She stared at him in shock, then hid her face in her hands, murmuring brokenly, “What do you want from me? What do you want?”
    He suddenly stood up. He disappeared into the kitchen. She heard water drumming into a kettle or something. In a moment he came out with it. It was steaming. He grabbed hold of her hand.
    “What are you doing?” she cried. She fought him, pulling and twisting, screaming no no. She was strong. She was still strong. But he straddled her arm, her face pressed against his backside, and he poured boiling water slowly over her hand and fingers. She screamed and strained desperately to break free behind him. He let her go and she fell back, clutching her hand, making torn sounds from her throat that she couldn’t even recognize as her own. It just kept burning.
    She was rolling, and squirming trying to get away from the pain. He kneeled on her chest to make her still, holding her head back by her hair to make her look up at him. She sobbed making deep sounds of agony.
    “Stop crying! Stop crying or I’ll do it again,” he said. He kept her face tilted up toward him. Tears kept rolling down.
     
    * * *
     
     
    He stuck her hand in a bucket of ice water. It helped. It numbed everything. Her hand was red, the colour of pain, and white blisters were showing up over the back of it and on her fingers. He raged around the room tearing at things and swearing. Then he stopped and looked at her. His brown eyes were shot with red. “You shouldn’t of pissed me off,” he said with some emotion.
    He stayed away from her all night and all the next day. He didn’t touch her, except to put burn treatment cream on her hand and bandage it. He fed her and gave her water. She didn’t move much. This unfamiliar aching weakness was alien to her, and her wounded hand frightened her. She hoped it wasn’t too bad. But most of all she was afraid of what he was capable of and how far his violence would escalate if she triggered him.
    It was late afternoon when he wanted to take her outside. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her to her feet. “I know you’re tired, and a bit weak, but you’ve got to move,” he said.
    “Um . . . Okay,” she whispered. He walked her to the front door and took her outside. The sunlight seemed really bright and unnatural. She let him hold her in his arms, clasp her close against him.
    “You’re not so scared of me anymore?” he said quietly.
    “No. I’m not scared.”
    “I got you somethin’. It’s still in the truck.” He led her