The longer he talks, the more her body wishes to expel everything in it. In his cruelty, he chooses to prolong the inevitable, which, once she alights upon it, becomes to her something absolutely certain and real. She ceases to listen to what he says, even in part. Her own thoughts have returned with a brutal clarity, fighting through the fog to make themselves known.

She does not believe her punishment is finished. She is alive, yes. But one thing is worse than even death, the possibility of which becomes omnipresent by way of the room’s enclosure. That terrible, naughty thing strong men do to weak women as soon as they are alone with them, when no one can come to their rescue. He said that himself, didn't he?

Even though Petra's arms are free, she remains bound, as though his speech and his presence are themselves securing her to the chair. She remembers his hand on her jaw forcing her mouth open. She remembers the violence with which he spat in her, the spit disappearing down her throat, into her belly where it still rots. She remembers his hand moving down to her throat, his smile wide like a deep cavern, the crushing pressure against breath itself and her utter helplessness to fight it. It will be like that but worse.

She can see his teeth in her flesh, his fingernails leaving half-crescents and rakes of greedy scars. Against her, he is heavy like a stone and just as unmovable. His mouth swallows her ear, his voice whispers vile things as the ball of his knee parts her legs. Whether the hand not gripping her throat or her hair or her wrists reaches for belt or dagger, she cannot tell. Either answer comes with a terrible clink. Behind the closed door, they are alone. He is so very alone with her. She presses her back against the chair, willing it to protect her.