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Ihave no flight or fight response. All I can feel is the gun against my head even though I know it’s not. I’m sitting on the couch and Frankie’s lying beside my feet. The guy with the gun stands in front of my door with it cracked. He keeps an eye on the hallway but keeps the weapon pointed at me. His friend is looking through my cupboards and throwing random stuff into another backpack.
I notice immediately that my laptop is gone. It was once sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch, but all traces of it have disappeared. My blankets have been thrown around and my closet door is open. I wasn’t outside long, but it was long enough for the thief inside my apartment to start rummaging through my things.
“Now if you just keep your mouth shut, this will all be over soon,” the gunman says with an eye trained on the door. “No funny business, ya hear?”
I’m in too much shock to say anything. My heart feels like it’s stuck in my throat and I’m so cold that goosebumps are starting to appear on my arms and I’m shivering.
“All this bitch has is pasta,” the guy in the kitchen says. “She don’t got any good snacks or nothing.”
Absurdly, I consider telling him that I’m trying to be economical. Pasta goes a long way whereas chips and cookies cost more and don’t make a meal.
My phone rings in the man’s pocket and he smacks it real quick. I watch as he pulls it out and presses the power button. With a sneer, he tells me that my mom is calling. “I’d say you better call her back later, but unless you’ve got her number memorized, that’s gonna be a problem. This,” he shakes the phone at me before stuffing it back into his pocket, “is coming with me. Can’t have you calling the cops the second we leave.”
The man in the kitchen is exasperated as he slams the refrigerator closed. “Almond milk? Really? Can’t even get a soda for our troubles,” he exclaims as he shoots me a glare. “You were a waste.”
They got a laptop and my phone out of the deal. That’s almost $2,000 in tech. What part of that is a waste?
“Is that an Apple Watch?” He asks as he comes closer. He peers at my wrist with a raised eyebrow and then shoves his hand out. “Hand it over.”
I don’t think I can move. Every limb in my body feels like it’s been filled with concrete. I open my mouth to tell him that it’s a Fitbit, hardly as expensive or as nice as an Apple Watch, but I can’t form words.
“Don’t make my friend threaten you again.” He narrows his eyes at me and steps forward, kicking my foot with his sneaker. He looks like his buddy, except his hair is dirty blonde and he doesn’t have a tattoo. Instead, he wears a pair of glasses and his figure is more muscular, as if he spends a few hours at the gym each week.
When I can’t force myself to unclasp my watch and hand it over to him, the blonde scoffs and reaches for my wrist. He isn’t gentle when he tugs on the watch a few times and rips it off. When it’s free, he checks out the display and nods his head approvingly. “I’ve always wanted one of these,” he says to his buddy by the door with a smile. “I never know if those machines at the gym are really telling me the truth about how many calories I’m burning.” He pockets the watch before looking at me again.
I want to believe that this is the end of it. They have their electronics, they stole some stuff from my kitchen, what more could they want?
But blondie tilts his head and gives me a quick up-and-down glance. His eyes land on my thighs where the end of my shorts meets my skin. I watch as he licks his lips like a starving man and feel my stomach churn with disgust. “What kind of panties you got on?” He asks after a minute.
What more could they want? What a foolish question. They could want everything. They could want my body. They could want my life. And because they have a gun, they have all the control.
“Hey,” the brunette at the door calls for my attention, “he’s talking to you.”
I vaguely remember a warning that I heard during sex ed in high school. The woman teaching us about periods, condoms, and STIs told us that if you’re ever in a situation where a man is about to take advantage of you, make yourself less attractive. Pee on yourself or vomit. Claim you have an STI. Stall. Yell ‘fire’ because people are more likely to respond. Humanize yourself.
But even if I could do all those things, I’d have to make my body move. And right now, everything is tingling with numbness. Even my brain feels stalled trying to remember what color underwear I put on after my shower last night.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll just find out for myself,” the blonde says with a nasty grin. “I don’t mind a struggle, honey. In fact, nothing gets me in the mood faster.”
This is where I’m going to die. I can feel it in my bones. The blonde is going to try to force himself on me and Frankie might try to come to my rescue. She’ll get hurt, I’ll start to fight back, and then the brunette with the gun will turn on me. All it’s going to take him is one bullet and he’ll be done with me. I’ll slump over and the two of them will get away scot-free. But the way it starts to play out is even worse than I could imagine.
The blonde grabs me by the wrist and pulls me off the couch. I collide with his body due to the inertia of his tugging. “Yeah, you like that?” His breath smells stale as he holds me in his arms. “I got a nice big package for you, baby. This way, we leave you with something to make up for what we took.”
Despite the chill I’m feeling from shock, I break into a sweat. I try to push him away from me, but he grabs my wrists and holds them tight with one hand. He takes his free hand and slithers it up my shirt. “You got a nice little body, sweet thang. I can’t wait to see what you’re like in bed. I bet you’re a firecracker, huh?” He leans down to whisper in my ear. “I bet your pussy is tight, isn’t it?”
Tears trickle down my face. I didn’t even realize I was crying until I feel the wetness land on my chest.
Blondie releases my wrists and brings a thumb up to my cheek to wipe a teardrop away. With the pad of his thumb slick with my fear, he drags it to his lips and takes a lick. “I like’em best when they’re afraid. Don’t you, D?”
D must be the brunette. He holsters the gun and shuts the door. “I guess we’ve got a few minutes,” he says with a lascivious grin. “If you know what’s good for you, you’re gonna let us do whatever we want to you. Are we clear?”
The blonde grabs my jaw and tilts my head up until I’m forced to make eye contact. He digs his fingers into my face until bruises form beneath his tips. “Are. We. Clear?” He punctuates each word with a tightening of his grip and a dropped octave.
I can’t shake my head yes. I can’t form the wordyeson my lips. I just beg and plead with my eyes that they’ll let me go untouched.
3
MITCHELL
