Breaking Point Read Online Free

the clench, but my stomach contents stay on the inside.
    I open my eyes and still I’m being stared at, the firm gaze recording every detail with a gravity that you could mistake for concern. He’s unbuttoning my shirt, still with that hypnotic, small but infinitely threatening blade just happening to hover in my immediate peripheral vision, a hateful coiled snake that is sure to bite at any second with lightning speed. Undoing someone else’s shirt with one hand is not a no-brainer, but he manages it slowly and smoothly, without breaking eye contact, and I realise that he has lived this thousands of times, turning each moment over in his head, rehearsing.
    It’s odd, but I’m simultaneously an object of unique importance and a total irrelevance. The moment is at once impersonal and obscenely intimate and, as my heart hammers away spastically, like a bird with a broken wing, I wonder if he might not misjudge this whole thing; if, never mind the pain, the fucking terror will finish me before that blade gets to bite. Then there’s that motherfucker hope again. How long was I out? Take your sweet-assed time, fucker. Take all the time in the world.
                  With my shirt undone; he exhales slowly (intimate but he’s true, not sexual, and more fucking Juicy Fruit) then smiles a street huckster smile. A can I buy you a drink? smile that promises Rohypnol-induced stupor and non-consensual anal sex for some poor underage girl, and says, “Well, let’s see how badly I’ve damaged the goods!”
    He moves forward with the blade, and I can’t breathe again. I am incapable of drawing breath, blinking, swallowing, moving my eyes away from him, I have actually gone fucking tharn , and every single nerve ending is screaming with anticipation at what’s to come. Surely this is an all time epic fail of evolution right here, isn’t it? Why wouldn’t I go numb? Instead I feel every hair on my arms standing to strict attention, the hairs on my head also rising, a beaded drop of sweat rolling down the centre of my chest, towards my busted ribs, and all I can think is: Don’t scream too loud. Don’t give him too much too soon. He gets carried away, like he did with the bat. You have to keep him calm so he’ll go slow. You have to help him stay calm. (And underneath, just ‘please oh please fuck no fuck fuck no please please no no fuck’ etc).
    His other hand reaches and pulls back my t-shirt from my chest, and the T is so wet it’s almost audible. His face shows no disgust, no concern. His eyes finally leave mine to attend to his task. He takes in my T and I’m close enough to see his pupils contract with surprise. Slowly, his eyes travel up to meet mine, then back to my chest, and a new smile, this one I think maybe genuine surprise/amusement, spreads across his face.“Fucking hell mate, talk about fate.”
    I have no idea what he’s talking about. Seeing this, he laughs.
    “Well, not much of a morning person, are you? Have you seen them live then?”
    He inclines his head towards the stereo and the penny drops - or maybe clangs. I’m wearing my Wolfmother T-shirt. It strikes me that this may provide a precious opportunity to stall. He’s genuinely surprised and clearly pleased with the co-incidence. I chance a deeper than normal breath, and stop inhaling just as the stabbing pain begins, and without swallowing or giving myself a chance to worry about if I can still do it, say, “Hammersmith Apollo.”
    Breath.
    “Last year.”
    He whistles appreciatively.  “I heard they put on a good show. Was it good?”
    “Yeah.”
    Breath.
    “Fucking loud.”
    He laughs again at that one. “I bet.  I’m glad it was good - I mean, you never know, do you? Huh. That’s funny, that is. Ah well…” His hand peels the wet T back from my chest again, high, near the neck, and the blade moves towards my throat. “I’m afraid your next of kin won’t be getting it back in one piece. Try not to make any sudden