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In my head, I evaluate the possibilities of getting it away from him and turning the weapon around. If I were foolish enough to believe the many videos circulating online about how easy it is to disarm someone, I might give it a shot, but my training says otherwise.
The look in his eyes dares me to try, and that’s enough to keep me complacent until he’s distracted.
He takes a step back, jerking the gun to indicate he wants me to walk toward the door. I obey, skirting around him, wondering just how much I’m going to have to withstand until I’m given the opportunity to escape.
Voices in the other room meet my ears when I step into the hallway, making me realize that even though I may be able to get the jump on this guy, I have at least two others to face before I can safely get away.
“That door there,” he says, still too far away for me to spin around and neutralize him.
I push open the door, the motion-sensor lights illuminating the room. As normal as the rest of the house seems, this bathroom was constructed for this very purpose. There’s no window to climb through, no sink, no toilet. It’s a simple shower room with nothing but a small hole in the wall for water to pour through and a drain in the center.
“She’s complying a lot better than I suspected she would.”
I spin around, facing now two men. The one with the gun smiles, a devious expression on his face as the other man approaches with a pair of scissors.
“Shoot her if she so much as flinches,” the new guy growls, both as an instruction for his partner and a warning to me.
The first man’s finger moves from the side of the gun to curl around the trigger, making this situation all the more real.
I can’t help the way my body trembles when my clothes are cut from my body. I want to curl inside of myself as the cool metal scrapes my skin, my leggings making it impossible to keep the tool from touching my skin. I highly doubt the man would be that considerate, even if he had the opportunity.
A minute, seeming like a year, is all it takes before I’m standing in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but the ropes on my wrists. I’ve been accused of being stubborn, unwilling to bend, more times in my life than I care to admit, and I channel that character flaw now as I stand there refusing to cover myself.
The guy with the gun smiles wider, and I realize my mistake. He sees my defiance as a challenge, making me understand my actions have the ability to make things worse.
But I can’t fold. I can’t beg him to let me go. Another part of my personality doesn’t allow for wasting time and energy on impossible things, and I know he’ll never concede.
“Shower,” he says, pointing the barrel of the gun toward the shower.
There’s only one lever that moves up and down and a single bar of soap sitting on the floor.
“I have the urge to keep this one for myself,” the guy with the scissors says as he grips my left ass cheek in his filthy hand.
I jerk away, my body responding before my brain can analyze the situation, but the guy merely chuckles, taking a step back instead of asserting his power over me.
“Now,” the gunman hisses when I glare at both of them.
I squat instead of bending to grab the soap from the floor, wondering inwardly just how many women have used it before me. Tears threaten with thoughts of others being here and just as terrified as I am right now as I reach for the lever.
I gasp as the frigid water pours down on me, making both leering men laugh.
Goosebumps cover my skin as my nipples tighten from the freezing water, but I soldier through, rolling the bar of soap between my hands and using the suds to scrub my body. I clean my arms, legs, and torso, keeping an eye on them as I wash what I can with my hands tied.
“Don’t forget the important parts,” the man who cut away my clothing insists as he taps the scissors on his open palm. The action reminds me of a nun, threating students with a ruler to ensure compliance.
I quickly scrub between my legs, my eyes dropping instinctually as I clean those parts of me.
The bar of soap falls from my hand, skittering across the concrete floor as I rinse, and I don’t know the best course of action here. Should I keep washing, putting off the inevitable, or get it over with to see what happens next.
I choose to finish as quickly as possible, even though it leaves me open to the unknown.
