Devil's Mountain by Bernadette Walsh Read Free Book Online

like lead and although I tried to command my arms to push him away from me, to protect me from him, they would not move.
    Bobby’s own clothes seemed to simply fall away from him, revealing not his usual soft paunch from too many three hour lunches, but ripped muscles that strained against taut skin.
    Bobby’s usually hairless chest was covered with swirls of thick, black hair. He continued to mutter in some strange language. Not English, not Gaelic--something harsher, guttural. The only word I could make out was “mine.”
    Bobby fell upon me, his weight crushing me against the thin mattress. With his arms, now almost double in size, he pinned mine above my head. His face was almost unrecognizable, with deep grooves carved into his cheeks. His mouth pulled back in a snarl. Teeth sank into my breast and tore my flesh. I cried out in pain.
    This only seemed to excite him more. He flipped me over, pushed my face into the pillow and forced my legs apart. He mounted me like an animal, like a bull. Pain engulfed me as blood poured from between my legs, as this stranger, this thing , ripped me apart. I heard a scream, like that of frightened animal being slaughtered. Its high pitched wail almost burst my eardrum. It was only from some deep recess of my mind that I was able to recognize the tortured screeches as my own. Panting into my ear as he rode me, both of us slick with my blood, he growled,
    “Mine, mine, mine.”

    * * * *
    “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
    I opened my eyes and lifted my hand to shield them from the morning sun streaming in the bedroom window. Bobby, hair tousled, eyes clear, held out a mug of tea to me.
    I sat up and took the mug from him.
    “It’s a glorious day.”
    I said nothing.
    He rubbed my arm. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Are you a little hung over? I’ll tell you, I was wrecked when I woke up. That’s the last time, little lady, I let you get me drunk. Did you take advantage of me last night?”
    “What?”
    He laughed. “I think you did.” He picked up his torn pants. “Look what you did to my pants.”
    “ What I did ?”
    He picked up my ripped shirt. “You must have been an animal last night. Remind me to buy a case of that wine when I get home. Hell, maybe ten cases. I wish I could remember it, though.”
    “You don’t remember anything?”
    He sat on the bed and nuzzled my neck. “Bits and pieces. I remember you moaning. You don’t usually moan. That was hot, Caro. I think I might need to attack you again.”
    I stiffened.
    “What? Are you feeling all right, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice soft and full of concern.
    My hands trembled as I placed the mug on the side table. “No, I’m okay. I only need to use the bathroom. Where is it?”
    “There’s a small bathroom in the shed, attached the kitchen. Caro, you look pale. Are you sure you’re all right?”
    “I’m fine.”
    “Here, wear this.” He handed me a white linen sheath. “I found this in the wardrobe. We don’t want you flashing the neighbors.”
    I tried to return his smile but couldn’t. Instead, I left for the bathroom.
    I stood in front of the cracked mirror in the small bathroom. How was it possible there was no trace of my tears from last night? My face looked well rested, refreshed. I looked good, and not just good for me. I’m under no illusions as to my very ordinary, even plain, appearance.
    No, I looked good, pretty even. My skin was clear, as if I’d spent a month at a spa, my normally thin lips were full, bee-stung almost. My hair, normally stick straight and dull-as-dishwater was streaked with golden highlights. It was wavy and looked longer.
    I pulled the hair off my forehead and moved closer to the mirror. I remembered, at least I think I did, a stray nail tearing at my forehead as Bobby--no, not Bobby, that thing--yes, as that thing dragged me through the bedroom doorway. But there was nothing there now. Not a scratch, not an indentation.
    What in God’s name happened yesterday?