"No fun anymore," I thought he said as he pushed himself back up onto his feet.
"Stop!" I demanded, pleaded, too sick to remember I was supposed to be strong. "Don't" I screamed as he moved toward me, smirking at my obvious distress.
See, there was knowing something, knowing it in a distant, clinical way. Like reading about the Persian's penchant for scaphism where they bound people to boats, ripped open their stomachs, poured milk and honey over them, then allowed them to be eaten by rats and insects, or the thousands of men and women who had spikes driven through their bodies from anus to mouth by Ivan the Terrible, or the actual burning of women as witches. It was a story on a page, true, but time-soaked, hard to grasp the horror.
Just like this.
There was all the training to stop it, talk about the motives behind it, endless stories on the primetime news, statistics and dramatizations on TV shows.
But it never really clicked.
The horror of it.
The inhumanity of it.
Trafficking.
Rape.
But there was Chris, a girl I maybe could have crossed paths with at some point, with hopes and dreams much like mine, who had never done a wrong thing in her life, thrown over the shoulder of a man who was bringing her to - and maybe participating in - a situation in which the term 'tag-team' could be used.
And she was limp as a sleeping baby, her mind abandoning her body to try to escape what was about to happen to it.
But there was no escaping it, not really.
The horror in her voice when she spoke was proof of that.
"Don't do this!" I demanded of the man instead, knowing Chris was deaf ears. "You don't have to do this!"
My voice was strange - shrill and squeaking.
"Have to?" he asked, head cocking to the side, resting on Chris' back. "No. Want to? Abso-fucking-lutely."
"You son of a bitch!" I screamed, shooting outward, not a single thought in my head but hurting him, clawing at him, doing something to him. It would be nothing in the grand scheme of things, but at least it would be some small bit of pain, something that said how evil he was.
My arms outstretched, knowing I didn't have the leverage to strike, but clawing out, scraping down the skin.
There was a sick sense of satisfaction coursing through me as a rough, pained hiss escaped him, a hot and gooey warmth much like the blood underneath my nails.
"Fucking stupid bitch," he growled, hefting Chris up higher, allowing him to pivot back, and strike forward, pain exploding across my unmarred cheek, fracturing upward until my eye socket felt fragmented.
The force knocked me back several feet as he turned to walk away.
Walk away.
With Chris.
To do unspeakable things.
Something came from me then, something animalistic, primal, something that reminded me of this book I had read once about women being descendent of wolves - a howling war call that sounded nothing like any sound I had ever made before.
The pain was a forgotten thing, lost in the recesses of a brain that could think of nothing but violence as I charged outward, striking out with the outside of my forearm, wrist, and hand, seeking a floating rib, hoping I could crack it clean off, making him fall, make his friends come take him.
And leave Chris.
But I was two inches too low, getting a growl as he whipped around, using his spin as momentum, arm cocked up, and elbow slamming full force into my jaw, sending me spinning toward the floor.
I had barely registered the crack of impact as my body hit the unyielding floor when I heard his boots going up the stairs.
Up the stairs with Chris.
"No no no!" I shrieked, slamming my palm against the floor in defeat, in complete and utter helplessness.
"Yes yes yes," he hollered down at me a second before the door slammed, and the locks slid and clicked back into place.
And the worst thought crossed my mind as I lay there, face screaming, side throbbing from the fall, breath coming in agonized huffs.
What if she has to pay for my actions? What if they took their anger at me out on her?
My stomach, as empty as it had maybe ever been, twisted and sloshed, bile creeping its way out and up my throat, threatening escape.
I pushed myself up, scrambling across the floor on all fours toward the toilet, sure I could tolerate a lot of awful conditions, but looking at and smelling my own puke for hours - or days - on end was not one of them.
I collapsed next to it, dry heaving for long enough that sweat prickled up over my skin, chilling me in the aftermath as I sat there, knees curled to chest, arms encircling them, forehead resting on my upper arm.
Rocking.
Just rocking.
Trying to breathe, to fight back the hysteria bubbling through my system.