The Invasion of the Tearling

“Sucking Arnie Welch’s cock.”


She didn’t know where that had come from; it was merely the first thing to pop into her mind. But she watched, amazed, as Greg’s eyes narrowed into tiny slits and his cheeks turned white.

He believes it!

For a moment Lily teetered on the edge of hysterical laughter. An image popped into her head: kneeling in front of Arnie Welch, poor old Arnie who was as dumb as a bag of hammers, and Lily began to laugh. She barely felt Greg grab hold of her hair—should have put it up, her brain remonstrated—and draw her up, making a square target. She giggled at the sight of his face, the tiny burning red spots in his white cheeks, the bared teeth, even the emptiness of his eyes.

“Stop laughing!” he shouted, spraying spittle across her face, and of course this only made Lily laugh harder.

“Weak,” she giggled. “And you know it too.”

Greg clouted the side of her head, sending her flying. Lily glimpsed a wall of sparkling sunlight in front of her and then she went through the patio doors, shattering both panes of glass. A million pinpricks seemed to needle into her arms and face. She pinwheeled for balance on top of the patio, then fell, rolling down three brick steps to land in the grass of the backyard.

“How weak am I, Lily?” Greg asked, his voice closing, following her down the steps. Lily’s arms had been sliced open, her head ached, and it felt like her ankle was twisted. Greg kicked her in the ribs, and Lily groaned and curled up, trying to protect her sides. As she rolled, she saw something that made her go cold: the fly of Greg’s pants had tented outward. Lily hadn’t taken a pill in more than thirty-six hours, and the old Lily, the careful one, had read every word of the insert that came inside the orange box. The math came out bad. If he raped her now, she could get pregnant.

She rolled over and lashed out with both legs, kicking Greg’s feet out from under him. Bright pain exploded in her bad ankle, but the move worked; Greg went down, an expression of almost comical surprise on his face. Lily tried to get up, but he had bruised her ribs, if not something worse, and her left arm wouldn’t respond to commands. She couldn’t get herself off the ground. She began to crawl, leaning on her right side, dragging herself sideways across the grass toward the kitchen door. In the center of the kitchen island sat a polished wooden block, and its gleaming surface hid more than a dozen knives. Picturing the smoothness of the big butcher knife, its weight in her hands, Lily felt a nearly dizzying excitement, and began to pant as she dragged herself along. Right arm out, as far as her shoulder socket would allow, and then drag her body to catch up. But her arm was already starting to ache. Lily had never been so conscious of her own physical weakness; she remembered Dorian doing pushups despite her stitches, thought longingly of the tough ripple of muscle along Dorian’s arms. She tasted blood.

A hand grabbed her bad ankle, making her squeal in pain. Lily peered over her shoulder and saw that Greg had hit something when he fell; fresh blood covered his chin. But he was still grinning, even with the bright red stream slavering from his mouth. He squeezed her ankle, and Lily screamed as she felt something grind together in there: muscle or bone, it didn’t matter which, it was all mixed up in a bright implosion of pain. She tried to kick Greg in the face, but there was no leverage while she was lying on her side. She yanked her foot from his hand and pulled herself closer to the kitchen door, thinking only how good the handle of the big butcher knife would feel, how smooth in her hand … if she could reach it. But she only made it a few more feet before Greg grabbed her again, by the calf this time, his fingers digging in.

“Where you goin’, Lily? Where the fuck you think you’ll go?”

His voice came thickly, almost bubbling behind her. Lily wondered if he had broken a tooth. She tried to wriggle forward again, but he worked a hand beneath her hip and flipped her over, neatly as a pancake, before crawling on top of her. He put a hand between her legs and squeezed. Lily screamed, but her screams were muffled against his shirt. She took a deep, gasping breath, filled with the sandalwood of his cologne, and felt vomit begin to work its way up her throat. And now, incredibly, Greg was muttering, “Say you love me, Lily.”

He had managed to pin both of her wrists over her head with one hand. Lily hawked back and spat, feeling thin pleasure as he recoiled.

“I hate you,” she hissed. “I fucking hate you.”

Greg punched her in the face. His fist missed her still-healing nose, but the bridge tingled with warning pain. Greg unbuttoned her jeans and Lily struggled harder, screaming, furious that it could still be this way, right here, with her husband’s broad shoulders and thick arms pinning her down.