SAMANTHA'S CHRONICLES

Bobbitt point

Talk of biting off more than you can chew

In Summary

• Chris inadvertently helps Samantha cut off his Johnson

Couple quarrel
Couple quarrel
Image: COURTESY

“Mummy! Make it stop!!!” Chris groans.

I continue, unfazed, waiting for mummy dearest to come through the door and save her drunk-with-power son. I’m sure it will be quite a sight, me on my knees, blood trickling down my mouth and him, hands flapping around helplessly. Perhaps I’m no longer floating around in the ceiling because I don’t see what happens next but I definitely feel it. It’s excruciating.

When in danger, you either fight, flee or freeze. It’s the body’s automatic built-in system. So far, Chris has been frozen calling for his mummy, but self-defence has kicked in.

I may have mentioned earlier how strong the guy is. His muscular strength — the amount of force his muscles can produce with a single maximal effort — might be equivalent to a sledgehammer. Or a ton of bricks.

At least that’s how it feels as he hits me hard on the head. The out-of-body experience I’m having is called dissociation. Feeling disconnected from the here and now. It usually happens when someone is experiencing a traumatic event. But hey, nothing like a massive thump on the head to bring you back to the present.

Ouuuchhhh! I can see stars. I know they’re not really stars, of course. The chaotic discharge of energy after the bang on my head has tricked my brain into thinking that it is seeing a twinkling array of lights.

Looking at a star-filled sky may give you all sorts of feel-good moments, but getting your head bashed in to create the same effect seems to be a case of Mother Nature’s really bad sense of humour. The lights dance around a little longer and I feel the searing pain that comes with such blows. Damn, it hurts!

But still, I won’t let go. At this point, it might be self-defence. If I let go, this guy is likely to kill me.

Nah, I’m lying. I’m hanging on because I want his organ severed. Cut off. Gone. I know what you’re thinking. That I’ve taken this too damn far. Maybe I have. But in this moment, it’s all making sense. Separating him and his organ feels like freeing every woman he has ever taken advantage of.

I bet when he woke up this morning he thought his day would end very differently. He had probably googled me, checked out the goods, liked what he saw and decided, “She’s mine!”

The fact that his wife made the introduction did not matter to him. Why should it? Men like him get away with stuff like this all the time. But not today. He clearly bit off more than he could chew. I don’t want any puns especially considering what I’m biting on right now, but alas, here we are.

He hits me again. This time the force is so hard, I fall back. As I fall backwards and hit the carpet, I realise it’s done. His trumpet is in my mouth. He has inadvertently helped me cut off his Johnson. I guess when I woke up this morning, I too, did not envision ending the day with someone’s trumpet cut clean off, in my damn mouth. What the hell?

I want to laugh hysterically as I see the gaping hole where his junk used to be but I’m in too much pain. Plus, my body is sending out signals for flight mode. Another blow like that and I’ll be dead. I spit it out the severed penis and all the blood in my mouth along with it.