The sun’s coming up and he’s hurrying up the stairs to his apartment. He’s had a long night and his need is great. His prize is waiting for him. Unbuckling his belt, he can’t wait.

But he composes himself by the time he reaches the closet. “How are you, love? Ready to play nice?” She doesn’t answer, just stares forward into the darkness.

He takes her silence as a yes and opens the closet door, slowly to let his anticipation build. He could care less about her eyes adjusting to the light. Still she doesn’t move so he again yanks her out and pushes her into the bedroom. This time she tries to push him off her broken, bruised body.

“Oh, I like a fighter.” He smirks and gets his belt. She screams as he lashes her back, then collapses, exhausted, almost unconscious.

When he finishes he’s sticky with sweat and she’s lying unmoving on the bare mattress. He takes a knife from the dresser drawer and she screams. But he doesn’t go for her flesh. He carves another notch into his belt. “Thirty-three.” He whispers.