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A woman—missing, or otherwise—is best viewed in parts. It takes away her power. It eliminates her strength. If she is broken into pieces, dehumanized, depersonalized, she is no longer a threat. She is only eyes. Breasts. Hips. The number on the tag in the back of her jeans. The color of her hair, especially when enhanced. Bejeweled, adorned, shaved, plucked, contoured. Acceptable only when twisted into someone else’s ideal.
I have the power to destroy you, too. Dear God, give me the chance.
He joins her on the bed, pulls her to his chest. He is strong, and warm, and despite herself, she snuggles in, letting the tension release from her body. She is still mad at him—furious, in fact—but she wants comfort more than rage right now.
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