Current mood: stressed
I am too busy to blog -- so here is an excerpt from my novel instead.
It hurt to move. Every muscle in her body screamed out in pain while she attempted to get her bearings. Her fingers were swollen and she was sure that her left hand was broken. The overhead light was off; but soft light was coming in from the hallway outside of the room. She was lying in a hospital bed. The bed next to hers was empty. She fought to remember what happened; but her thoughts were fuzzy and dark. She was still alive, which meant she'd successfully fought back. While she was giving thanks to God for delivering her from the Evil that had plagued her for two decades, her prayer was interrupted by a soft whistle in the hall. When she tried to move, the woman realized that her torso and legs were bound to the bed. Panic overcame her when she saw the silhouette in the doorway.
"You're awake. We've been so worried about you." Tears started streaming down her bruised face when he walked closer to her bedside. "Oh, don't cry, Little One." he soothed, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "I haven't given you anything to cry about. Not yet, anyway." She attempted to jerk away from him, but the pain was too much and she felt her consciousness slipping when he squeezed her left hand in his. "Rest now. We'll talk later." He smiled and sat down in the plastic chair next to her bed. He wondered what dreams were taking form in her mind. The ones she had been sent before couldn't help her; couldn't save her.
Once he was sure she would stay asleep, he walked into the bathroom and took off his shirt to examine his bruises. She had fought back with a vengeance this time. Her speed and rage were unexpected and it had taken longer than he'd intended to disarm her. The wound on his shoulder was stitched, but still wept blood and pus. She had been able to get in a surprise blow with her keys before he could grip her left arm. Her bones had cracked when he slammed her hand into the cement column she had been hiding behind. Her scream had been deafening; but she kept fighting, knocking the wind out of him more than once, until he knocked her unconscious with one strong kick to her face.
His fingers traced the bruises on his chest. She had learned how to punch while he'd been gone. Her aim was accurate and his solar plexus had taken the brunt of her rage. She tried for his windpipe once, but his hands were quicker than hers, and he merely reminded her that her hand was broken when he grabbed it. His face was still unmarked and beautiful, like an angel's. He smiled into the mirror and redonned his shirt. She would wake up again soon, and this time he wanted to watch her face register his presence in the light. He wanted to see her fear close up and personal.