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Thirty-One

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He would not have expected his own hands to have felt so unspeakably vast, coiled thick and heavy around a borrowed windpipe. Those hands, his hands, his arms, his strength, the force and weight of an adult body pressing down onto something delicate, something fragile, something to be handled with care.



“D’you get it now?” It’s his voice that growls, it’s his hips that snap against this body’s brittle pelvis, but the words and actions seem unrecognizable; drenched in another man’s rage. “D’you get what you were putting me through all this fucking time?”