‘You can’t pay the rent again?’
‘No.’ My nails carve crescents into the palms of my hands. I fight to keep my breathing measured.
‘You’re two months behind. I’m not a freakin’ charity.’
‘I’ll make it up to you.’ My stomach rollercoasters and I force a smile, unbutton my blouse.
His hands reach for his belt buckle. ‘You want this?’
I nod and lick my lips, quash the rising nausea and drop to my knees.
‘You bitches are all the same.’
Swirling blackness floods my veins and I clamp my teeth together, hard.
I’ll have to move house.
Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 word story inspired by a photo prompt. Read the other entries here.