Breaking Point Read Online Free Page B

my face, my head, and bongos. Well, fuck me, that was a crazy dream.  I should lay off the cheesecake. Now, what the fuck is going on? ‘Sympathy…’? No. Distorted guitar kicks in. It’s ‘Love Train.’ My face starts to smile in recognition. I feel it move, then freeze.
    Wolfmother. At volume.
    Aw, fuck.
    It’s grief; that’s all. Simple grief. It rises up from my chest as memory oozes back, skulking out of the shadow of unconsciousness to squint and squirm in the light of realisation. A grief so big, so painful, that my eyes fill with tears even before the pain fades back in. My eyelids are still too heavy to open, but the tears come regardless, and I realise I’m sobbing in quick small breaths.
    The snot reaches my tongue and mixes with the taste of blood and stomach acid. The last thing I’ll ever taste - bitter, salt, copper. I can smell nothing. I feel too much. Too much. And the worst is yet to come. I’m not going to make it. And still he mops my brow, gently, tenderly, love me tender, love me true, true love, false love, false. I weep. For myself. For what’s to come. I know the pain will kill me, and I know it won’t be quick. How many more times will I wake with this taste in my mouth? How many before I just stay down? Too many. Any is too many.
    I cry. ‘Love Train’ keeps on trucking, loud and proud. My doom wipes my face (all the better to kill you with) and I’m thinking about how long I can keep my eyes shut (too fucked up to realise that you don’t cry when you’ve passed out, so he knows that I’m up) when my heart stops and my eyes fly open.
    My left trouser pocket is vibrating.
    Fucking hell, baby. Where the fuck have you been?
     
    CHAPTER 6
     
    There’re too many thoughts and far, far too little time. She’s trying to reach me, so she’s worried. 50/50 is fucked; the audience is gone, but I still have phone-a-friend. My last lifeline is live. Thanks entirely to my anal wanker supervisor and his ‘mobiles-on-silent’ policies. I could kiss the sweaty fat fuck right now. With tongues. But piling onto the back of that thought, I’m staring into the eyes of my killer and whatever my face is doing, he doesn’t like it. Not one bit. And that’s unacceptably bad news, because I want my fucking lifeline, and if he finds it, he cuts it.
    Shit. Fucking fuck. There’s no time to think, just act, but I can’t. I’m paralysed. I just stare at him instead. He’s got my vomit all over his shirt and trousers and some on his neck: mostly cake, sandwich, Coca-Cola and stomach acid with just a little blood. If it smells as bad as it tastes, he’s got a pretty high tolerance for the gross (which, duh). His face is alive and alert and deeply scary. His nostrils are flaring, his eyes blazing, brow furrowed. He’s devouring my expression, and I start to get the merest glimpse of what lurks beneath the man I’ve seen so far; it’s a lake of fire, ever-burning rage, and all I’ve seen so far is the merest flicker.
    “What?” His voice is so, so soft.
    This is IT, motherfucker. It’s in your hands, and it’s now or never. SAY SOMETHING!
    “Nothing.” I concentrate on letting the pain and the fear back in. Not all the way, but to the surface, loud and clear. Breathing a little deeper is a good first step. My eyes fill with tears again, and I feel my face falling.
    He’s not biting.
    “Bullshit. Something. What?” Voice a little louder. Grip tighter on the cloth. Knuckles whitening, water trickling through his fingers, unnoticed, pattering on the floor between his feet.
    He’s going to punch me in the face in the next couple of seconds. Or maybe the arm. That does the trick. Fear - no, terror - comes flooding back in. The tears flow. I feel myself trembling all over. Shock. Pain. It’s real; this is real. I don’t want this.
    “Saved!” My own voice is a bark, harsh and alien.
                  “What?” His tone has changed, marginally.
    He’s still fully alert,