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But right here in this basement, I was glad I was made uglier by black and blue and purple. Maybe, if I was lucky, there were some sickening shades of yellow and green mixed in too.
Not that ugly was a deterrent.
Rape isn't about attraction, Aunt Lo had once told me as she taught me how to get out of what she referred to as the 'rape position' - me on my back, my attacker pinning my arms to the ground, body weight pressing me down as well. Rape is about power.
I could be a swamp creature, and these men would still want to do terrible things to me, because that was what they got off on, not my looks - my fear, my pain, my helplessness.
I trained for this, I reminded myself as the man got closer, bringing with him the scent of sandalwood which I had always liked, but would never be able to smell again without it making my stomach roll. Even now, it went from pleasant to rancid, my nose curling up, my breath catching so as not to breathe more of it in.
This was why I spent endless hours with someone pinning me to the ground, scolding me when I forgot what I was supposed to do, and rolled onto my belly.
Never give up your back! They would yell at me, frustrated for reasons I guess I had never understood.
Because it was never just an exercise.
It was preparation for a possible real-life scenario.
When 'giving up my back' meant someone could yank down my pants and panties, and rape me without me being able to fight back in any way.
I trained for this, I thought again as he got close, as his head ducked to the side, eyes dipping, moving over the undeveloped length of my body. Everything about it screamed Not ripe yet. Don't pick! But there was a sickness in mankind, a preference even, for bodies decent people knew were too young, not ready. He shouldn't have been able to look at me and see possibilities. But that was what he was seeing as his gaze seemed to sear through my dress, seeking secrets hidden beneath.
I trained for this, my brain screamed louder. I am not a victim, it added.
My head shook slightly, clearing the fog put there by his predatory stare, making me remember that I had to stay present, I had to focus, to look for anything that might help me escape.
There was the key, still held too loosely, but just a few inches out of reach. He'd see me move. He would react, step back, get further away. I had to bide my time.
What else my brain demanded to know.
His shirt was too small, slipping up a bit in the back, revealing a sliver of his side, and something else. Something black. Sleek.
A gun.
He had a gun.
A key and a gun.
Those two things screamed freedom to me.
I just had to wait.
To find my opening.
To act.
Even if my palms felt a little sweaty.
You're allowed to be afraid, Uncle Edison had growled at me - growled because that was simply how he spoke, but you are not allowed to give up. Fear is a powerful motivator. Use it.
I swallowed, making his gaze go up, watching the moving of my throat like it was somehow erotic - the freak - for a second before he found my face again.
"Shame it's not your turn," he told me, sounding genuinely disappointed.
It took a long second, long enough that he moved back one more step, making any kind of attempt to grab the key impossible - to realize what he was saying.
It wasn't my turn.
But if it wasn't my turn.
Oh, god.
No.
But even as my mind formed the word of objection, his body was moving across the floor, calm and collected, like he wasn't fetching a young woman for the sole purpose of torturing her.
Chris.
"No!"
The word exploded out of me, dragging out every bit of rage and horror and ferocity my body could hold - which, as it turned out, was a lot. Enough to make him actually cringe forward at the loudness for a second before turning, shooting me an amused look.
"What? You'd rather they tag-team you?"
Bile rose in my throat, acidic and burning.
"I'd rather you fall, get a concussion, and choke to death on your own vomit," I shot back. Aunt Alex. That was Aunt Alex somehow coming out of my mouth.
To that, he threw his head back, laughing for a long second. "Yeah, I bet you'd like that."
With nothing else, he turned again, crouching down beside Chris' motionless body, stabbing the key into the chain at her ankle.
It clicked open.
Freedom.
Freedom.
But she was still trapped.
In a prison of her own mind, too beaten down to find the will to even try.
"Fight!" I demanded, voice deep, forceful, but pleading at the same time. "Fight him!" I tried again as he pocketed the key, reached down, and sank his unwelcome fingers into her hips, lifting her lifeless body with a grumble, throwing her over his shoulder.
