Loan sharks return and force dave to sodomise his daughter

One week later, the rain had stopped, but the air in the Wythenshawe flat still stank of mildew, old cum, and despair. Dave Hargreaves hadn’t slept properly since that night. His wrists were scabbed over from the cable ties, his eyes sunken and red-rimmed. He’d sold what little he could, the TV, PlayStation, Sophie’s old jewellery, but it barely scraped together two grand. The rest he’d drunk away in cheap vodka, trying to drown the memory of his daughter’s screams. Sophie barely spoke anymore. She stayed in her room with the curtains drawn, showered three times a day but still felt dirty, like the filth had seeped into her bones. She flinched at every noise, every creak of the floorboards. The bruises had faded to yellow, but the real damage was deeper.