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Fannie

Fannie’s nose is bleeding, her cheek bruised and swollen; she eyes the door and tries furtively to saw through duct tape with the rusted edge of a broken pipe.

“This is your own fault,” Freddie says, digging through her purse. “The way you act, the way you looked at me–hell, you might as well have asked for it.” He pockets her cash, tosses the rest in the furnace, and grabs her hair to pull her close.

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” he hisses.

“Wombat!” gasps Fannie.

“Come on!” Freddie wails. “You promised not to use the safeword!”

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