SKINTIGHT (Watty Awards 2024)

Chapter 1

Violet

I'm going to gouge his fucking eyes out. His handprint is stained on my breast, his oversized claws tattooed on my skin. I've been marked — branded and stamped, like a pig to the slaughter. My fingertips feel cold against the blemish. Its scarlet colour clashes with the soft pink shade of my nipple, but not as bad as the swollen, purple contusion on my rib cage. Unwelcome spots of red and blue are littered over my body. I poke them one by one, testing to see which ones will stain, and which will be gone by tomorrow. The feel of my frozen fingers is much more welcome than the ghost of his touch.

My face doesn't look much better. My eyes are red and swollen — like I've been crying. I haven't been crying. My mouth is dry, too, and my lips are chapped. I smack them together, hoping to repair them with my own spit. His grip on my throat has left me with marks I won't be able to hide — not without the skills to.

The light above the mirror flickers, only adding to the dreadful mood. The bathroom is old and bleak, and clearly unused. If I didn't know better, I would've thought I'd opened the door to an abandoned public restroom. And maybe I would have preferred that over my reality.

I don't know who lives in this house. I'm glad it's not me. It feels haunted. The walls are filled with the screams of a thousand women, just like me. They're warning me to get out, but they don't know that's precisely what keeps me here.

My gaze shifts to the left, an oblivious man resting against the doorway. He's just as naked as I am, his cock still in his hand. He wipes some sperm off its tip.

"You alright, babe?" he asks.

"Uhm-hmm," I nod. "I'm good."

"Did you enjoy that?" he takes a step forward, joining me in the reflection of the mirror.

His blond hair drapes over his forehead, wet from the sweat produced in his attack on me. I can still feel the droplets hitting my cheek.

"Yeah. It was nice."

His cruel eyes trail over my body, landing on the pink bruise on my jaw. His lips angle up into a proud smirk.

"I fucking love this," he runs his thumb over it.

I pull away. "We should get dressed. The boys are probably wondering where you are."

"Oh, they know," he chuckles. "You know I can't shut up about you."

I smile at his words, not because they're flattering, but because I know they're a lie. It's true he can't shut up, but it has nothing to do with me. Jack is as simple-minded as they come. He told his friends we left to fuck purely because he likes to brag. He just decided to decorate his lie to appease me — to distract me from the truth by dousing it in glitter and gold. But glitter is just plastic in disguise.

Jack lifts his phone up, snapping a picture of our reflection in the mirror. Another one for his collection. I don't know how many he has now — photos of my naked body. It'd be enough for him to fill a book, I'm sure. I don't recall a time we've had sex where he hasn't pulled out his camera. But then again, I can't recall all the times we've had sex either. He's probably taken pictures of me while I'm unconscious, too. That hasn't stopped him from doing anything else. It just turns him on more — me, unresponsive. It's fucking sick. But you know the drill — what a man wants, a man gets, as Dani would say.

I scoop my clothes up off the floor as I head back into the room. I step into them slowly, not speaking another word to the man I should be calling mine. I don't have the energy to rush. My skin is still clammy, and my jeans only make it worse. It was a stupid idea to wear jeans, anyway. I just wanted to make it harder for Jack to get me naked, but I've just made things worse for myself. Even my shirt feels too tight. By the time I manage to wrangle the fabric into place, Jack's already got his shoes on.