Standing at the door, Linda felt time slow, ensuring she bore witness to every moment:
Drake, splayed across the bed, arms at odd angles.
Drake, bathed in sweat, streaked with blood.
Drake, eyes glazed, staring heavenward.
Drake, undone by the whip and the woman riding him.
Closing her eyes, she saw it all again, a travesty caught in the amber of memory:
Drake, raging at his own nature.
Drake, mouthing promises.
Drake, on his knees, begging.
Drake, undone, first by her resistance, then the snub-nose revolver he’d insisted would keep her safe.
Funny how right he was in the end.
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