Corn, Cows, and the Apocalypse

The Middle

A month later, I should have been getting better, but I wasn't. Garrett insisted that I was, but he was still beating me hand over fist... literally. I was covered in bruises and slashes. I was the poster child for abused women: beaten to a bloody pulp and still going back for more.

I wanted to win more than ever, for myself, but I still couldn't beat him. My sword fighting was laughable, and even Garrett admitted that we were probably wasting our time trying to force skill where there wasn't talent. My running speed had improved, as well as my jumping, but no matter how fast I was, I still couldn't beat him in hand-to-hand combat.

I flew back feeling the full impact of his fist on my eye. It was astonishing how much it hurt to be punched in the face. I was certain that my eye might explode like a water balloon, but it never did. The swelling would go down. The black eyes would fade, although they were usually quickly replaced.

Normally—in regards to my new normal—I would have gotten right back up and gone after him, but this time I just stayed down. We had been sparring for an hour, working our way up to real hits as a way to build endurance to pain. Basically, we were beating the crap out of each other. Obviously I was losing.

"Get up," Garrett bellowed in his deepest commanding voice. I could tell he was angry. He was getting more temperamental every day. I assumed he was just as frustrated with my progress as I was, but his displeasure wasn't going to make me fight harder. Hell, he was already hitting me daily; what more could he threaten me with? "Get up!" he yelled.

I opened one eye, since the other was already swelling shut. He was panting. At least he had to exert some effort to defeat me. I shook my head with lazy defiance. He clenched his teeth and huffed his derision like a big-nosed bull.

When his leer didn't move me, he kicked my leg. It hurt, but not enough for me to give him the satisfaction of winning. When I mouthed, "fuck you" at him, I could almost see the steam coming out of his ears.

He knelt down beside me and grabbed me by my shirt. I wasn't surprised that he had the strength to pull my torso off the ground, but I was impressed that my cotton shirt didn't rip in his grip. "That's a great idea. Maybe since you're just going to lie on your back, I can get a little use out of you."

He tried to look me over luridly, but his eyes too quickly came back to rest on mine. It was just a threat. He might have wanted to do just that, but from what I had gleaned from his closed-mouth personality over the last six weeks, he was bashful when it came to sex.

More than a few nights I had fallen asleep on the couch with him, and each time he delivered me to my bedroom without any attempt to do more. I had even gotten brave enough to walk around the house in my towel after my shower, but he didn't take the bait. For the most part, I still hated him, but I was starved for attention. Even the potential of having sex was better than nothing at all.

I smiled up at Garrett's leering face. "As long as I don't have to move, you can do whatever you want."

His face contorted between three or four confused and menacing expressions before he settled on interest. His eyes flickered over mine, trying to read me. Was I just being a smart-ass, or did I genuinely not mind if he had me? He couldn't read me, so he looked over my body.

He was evaluating me. Seeing how much he wanted me. Was it worth throwing out the whole day's schedule just to satisfy his needs? Adding to that, was it worth potentially disrupting days and weeks after that if he wanted more?

I hated to interrupt the questions lining up on his face. I probably needed and wanted sex even more than he did, but I also needed and wanted to win one freaking battle. I wasn't an egotist, but I was a feminist, so for the remainder of female-kind, I wanted to beat him.

The rock I had been slowly wiggling loose beside me, just out of his line of sight, was a decent handful. Once I got my grip on it, I flung my hand up and thwacked his skull. I was careful not to hit his temple, but I held nothing back on my strength.

Before he could recover from the blow, I punched him with my other fist, and kicked him back. I jumped on top of him, gut-punching him with my weight. I hit him with the rock again, which made his eyes roll back, followed shortly after by his head. Once I was sure that he was knocked out and not just pretending, I did a long victory lap around the yard, Rocky-style.

After that I checked to see if he was still breathing.