WEEK 35: Only two fingers on his left hand

Prompted by: Jane Jago

WARNING: This fictional storyline may contain very disturbing situations, dubious consent, and graphic violence.

Seven bullets.

Pierced through flesh, shredded through muscle, obliterated tissue into nothing but minced meat.

One grazed his temple, almost taking an eye in the process. A pair lodged in his thigh, refusing to exit on the other side. Another tore into his neck, creating quite a fun mess to clean up. A couple blasted through his ribcage, puncturing a lung, no doubt making him gasp for air. And a shot to the chest nicked his heart…

Nearly putting him six feet under.

But he had survived.

Somehow.

Against all odds, he’d pulled a cockroach and managed to survive.

It was a God-given miracle.

You see, they’d done more than just pump him full of lead. Some sick fuck had taken a sledgehammer to his beautiful body as well. Annihilating an entire row of ribs. Crushing a perfect set of metacarpals into dust and debris.

Only two fingers on his left hand had escaped the brutality unscathed. Remaining exposed, unbound by layers upon layers of bandage and gauze.

I wanted to strangle him.

“Iz…”

Because he still had the tan line from his wedding band. And it wasn’t the least bit faded.

“Maybe you should wait.”

“Wait?” I echoed in disbelief.

My brother-in-law replied with only a sigh.

Which pissed me off to no end. “Maybe I should fucking wait?”

Slick didn’t answer me. Nobody answered me.

I pointed the rolled up document at the asshole. At my asshole. “And what about him?”

Nada.

Tightening my grip, I reared back and smacked him upside the head with it.

“Isabel!”

Fuck you, Doc. All sorts of fuck you.

Tears blurred my vision. “Do you think he should’ve waited?”

Silence. Of course.

Deep breath.

“Now, I have a very important matter to discuss with my goddamn husband,” I continued, struggling to keep my voice steady, “so I’d really appreciate a little fucking privacy.”

Fortunately, they both complied. Because I couldn’t hold myself together any longer. In fact, the second we were alone, I completely unraveled at every seam. There was no chance of stopping it…

I struck him once more.

Before tossing the divorce papers in his face and switching to my bare fists.

Hitting him over and over and over again.

As for the love of my life?

He took the abuse.

Didn’t stop me even though he easily could’ve. Didn’t defend himself even when I drew a dangerous amount of blood. Didn’t move. Didn’t budge. Didn’t so much as twitch.

While I beat the living shit out of him.