It got worse after she posted a new revision of the story for the Literary Journal. This time Theodoric left a short message. For a moment she dared to hope against all hope that he'd changed his mind and was going to be more discreet about this. That was not in the cards, and she inwardly chastised herself for not knowing better:I was going to post my edits here, but in attempting to I found that there were so many that I violated the character limitation of the board software. Instead I've posted them to my personal website... and he listed the address. Publicly. She gritted her teeth.She was infuriated by the implication: that while the story itself fit tidily within the limitations of the SBL software, somehow there were so many corrections to detail that it no longer would. It was a crappy story, in other words. She flushed.She tried to be positive about it and consoled herself with the fact that no one would bother logging into an outside site just to read Theodoric's edit of. He wasn't. Before I could even discuss it with him, before I could ask for an answer, before I could determine what the fuck was even happening, I saw him removing an oddly shaped piece of metal from inside a fold of the blanket and coming toward my mouth with it. If I'd known what it was, I'd have closed my mouth right then. Instead, he interrupted me mid-sentence to shove this open-mouth gag into my face and pinched the levers tightly apart. I tried to bite down on it, thinking there might be some slack in its tension, thinking it might give a smidge so that my jaw could close even slightly. Oh no. Of course not. My hands were locked together and my mouth was hinged open wide as could be with no hope of reprieve: fact. I looked at him with fear, unsure of what to think about my new circumstances but realizing that I was indubitably confined to them. I looked at Gene, expecting some kind of assistance. There was only compassionate apathy in his eyes; he was obviously intrigued, and.
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