His skin was rusty, peeling at the seems ; slicing my body into a million pieces, as if ready to feed me to the wolves.
His fingernails left scratches on my hips, below the bone, when I tried to fight. My DNA remains under his nails as he rips them off his hand trying to restrain me.
Blood. Blood everywhere. In my imagination.
In reality, the only proof I have was a black, darkening bruise - spreading across my body like wildfire, gushing up to my mouth and sewing it shut.
Does he know what he's done?
