Air flooded into my lungs, bringing my senses back to life. I wrenched an arm out of his grasp, whirling it madly and knocking the tray from the table, covering us in gin. Ian snarled and tried to catch my hand. I dragged it across the floor, searching for the knife, or glass, something, anything I could use as a weapon. There, something, a blade. The lemon knife! Thoughts ran through my head at speed as I wrapped my fingers around the handle. You have to do it. He’ll rape you again if you don’t. Then he’s going to kill you. You’re not going to walk out of this.

‘I’m not finished with you yet,’ he snarled.

Closing my eyes, I drove the knife upwards into Ian’s armpit. Twisting once as far I could get it and thrusting it forward. Just like I’d read online. His grip on my wrist went limp and blood showered from above, dousing me before he collapsed. The cream rug turning crimson beneath him. He lay on his side, trying to stem the blood flow streaming through his fingers. A deep guttural sound came from him. I rolled over, panting and coughing. I didn’t want to miss this. My throat burned and waves of exhaustion washed over me, but I had to remain conscious. I was no longer afraid. We faced each other as though we were lovers in bed. Basking in the afterglow. My eye already swelling and pain radiating through my body. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Everything hurt. But I was alive. I’d won.

I leant forward, my face inches from him. His pale face glistened damp with sweat. He was fading, but his stare remained hard.

‘You will remember me,’ I whispered.

His hand reached for me, searching, clutching nothing but air. I pushed it away. Using the last bit of energy I had left; I rolled onto my knees. Dragging myself up the sofa to my feet. Vaguely aware I was naked from the waist down, I pulled on my jeans, not bothering to do them up, and staggered to the door. I waited, catching my breath as I watched his pallor turn a greyish-white and his body became still. Leaving everything behind, my bag, my shoes and all my hatred for Ian Shaw, I made my way down the stairs and out onto the street. I didn’t look back.

Tuesday 30 January 2018

The bright sunlight makes me squint as the guard draws back the heavy metal door. It groans as it’s dragged through the gravel, as though it isn’t opened often. I shield my eyes with the palm of my hand, gazing up at the morning sky and drinking it in. I’ve only been incarcerated for around sixty hours, but I will never again take for granted the sun on my skin or a breeze through my hair.