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She was struggling with them, trying to keep them from getting her into a car. Suddenly they started cursing and hitting her. One of the men had her b... the hair holding her, while the other hit her everywhere, he pummeled her face until it was a bloody pulp, then hit her several times in the stomach and breasts. Hitting her until she stopped screaming. She kept looking over to me for help. I tried to go to her or call out for help, but I was unable move or utter a sound. They finally let go of. I carried that diagnosis for about three years before the neurologist I was seeing took a muscle biopsy from my affected arm and determined it was not Lou Gerrig’s, but a benign virus of some nature, similar to one he had seen in India. It never progressed beyond weakness in my left hand. But for those three years I lived with it, and I was pretty fearless about living. I wasn’t an asshole about it; at least once I got through all the normal phases. 1. Grief, 2. Denial, 3. Anger, (That would be. He smelled so good, of sweat and leather and steel and masculine musk. How had she never noticed before? He smelled of violence and war and blood, and even as disturbed as she was by blood right now that smelled good, too, because it smelled of him. She could practically taste him on the air. Shaking, warring with herself. No, no, no. Not now. Not here. Not him, gods please, have mercy. Silmaria fought for control. She tried to push the primal, overwhelming longing and need flooding her veins. I ran up the long unpaved driveway, ignoring the cold. I didn’t even notice as my foot broke through the ice over a deep puddle and was submerged up past my ankle in icy water. I kept running until I got to the house and wrenched open the door. I took a step inside and Angel jumped into my arms, kissing me passionately. Funny, the two of us together reminded me of those old Calvin and Hobbes comics I used to read. ‘I missed you,’ I said while pulling off my coat and backpack. ‘I missed you.
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