Fiction, continued

It seemed as though it had happened to someone else. When she thought about it now, she couldn't hear the sound of John's screams - although she could see his mouth, open and distorted. She could remember Carlos' face, purpling as he swore and spat at her, but the words themselves were muted. It seemed almost as if she had been underwater.

She knew that they would find out what she had done. Despite the darkness, she walked close to the buildings to hide the blood which had somehow smeared everywhere.

She stopped at a newstand and bought a t-shirt. As she pulled it on over her clothes, the man behind the counter leaned out: his interest had been piqued by her battered face. One hand began to reach for his mobile phone.
"He likes it rough," she told the man, imagining that she was the type of the woman who would do that - and more - for money, for a way out. He leaned back, suddenly bored. Whores were a dime a dozen; they were of no interest to him.

The train station was just a few blocks away.