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I had no choice but to follow as the hand on my arm dragged me forward.
Count, I remembered five feet into my walk/drag.
I had to count my steps.
I had to listen.
I had to try to force my swollen, painful eyes to adjust to the darkness, to be able to see through it.
Fifteen steps.
A curve to my left.
Six steps, a shaded window, slivers of moonlight peeking through the sides.
Eight steps, a doorway, closed. Or so it seemed, because there were sounds coming from within in, a creaking, a hissing, a banging.
Don't think about it, I commanded my brain even as the realization of what was happening there crossed my mind.
My parents never blocked the late night TV shows. I knew sex when I heard it.
And I needed not to think about it, not to wonder if the participants were happy lovers, or girls like me... and men like the ones flanking my sides.
A turn to my right.
Twenty steps.
No windows.
No doors.
No sounds save for the scrape of my shoes, the clomp of the man to my right, and the step, drag sound of the man to my left, the one who suggested the other carry me. He was lame in some way. A limp, maybe. A prosthetic. Something. One of his feet or legs didn't work as it should.
I was yanked to a stop, the hand loosening enough that the blood flooded back to it - a pulsing sort of pain that momentarily eased the jackhammering in my skull.
A click.
A slide.
Another click.
Locks.
Those were locks.
I had a feeling I knew what was next, threw an arm out as I was pulled to help keep my balance as I was pulled forward, as my foot met the end of the floor, dropped, found a narrow stair that bent in the center from years of people who walked up and down there instead of the sides.
My hand met the wall, smooth Sheetrock for five steps before it gave way to something more rough and cold.
Cinderblocks.
A basement.
Seven more steps.
A stumble as my foot sought another step only to find solid floor.
There were sounds here, dull, but there.
Breathing.
The steady in and out of air in bodies.
Bodies, well, they had scents too.
Sweat and unwashed hair.
Blood.
Blood.
No.
I couldn't think about the blood, about how it got there, about who inflicted it.
I had to focus instead on what else bodies had.
Minds.
Mouths.
Things that could tell me more about where I was, why I was there, what the rest of the building maybe looked like.
The hand closed tighter again, this time - thanks to the reprieve - the pain was sharp and insistent, demanding attention, as my body was pulled forward across the floor.
Twelve steps.
Then a pause as I tried to slow-blink, as I tried to force my eyes to see.
There was a clang I couldn't make out as I started to finally see him.
My captor.
The outline of his massive frame, so massive that it reminded me of my Uncle Wolf, of his stubbornly unmovable body when I had tried to best him. Even just standing still, taking my abuse, I could never overtake him.
My gut told me that I could never overtake this one either, this silent, looming giant, but my will to survive told me to try.
There was another noise, something metallic and heavy, dragging across the floor.
The hand loosened.
Then released entirely.
There was hardly even a heartbeat of a hesitation as my body swiveled, muscles remembering the moves even before my brain could grasp with them with clumsy hands.
My feet planted, evenly holding my weight as my right side cocked back, as my fist curled, as every ounce of weight in my admittedly slight body surged forward.
Adrenaline made the movements feel slow as I could hear the swish of the air as my arm sliced through it, as my fist sought its target.
The crack and crunch was something I felt and heard simultaneously as my fist made contact, something soft and curved along with something firm and unyielding.
An ear and jaw.
Crack.
And crunch.
Then grunt, hiss, the man registering the pain even as I curled back again, now knowing the ear, knowing the nose was just a few inches inward.
It landed there, warm breath meeting my knuckles before they landed with an upward strike.
Had it been more true, were I able to see, was my position skilled enough, I could have done it. It was easy, really. Pushed his nose into his skull.
Nearly instant death.
But nothing lined up for me, my weakened hands from the whack from the metal bar, my too-sideways strike, making my own chest get in the way of my full force, my blind eyes unable to catch him perfectly under the nostrils.
It hurt, sure.
He reared back, growling, likely tasting his own blood as it leaked from his nose to his mouth.
I went back a step, raising my arms, using my raised fists to shield my face.
