Page 6 of Delta (Alpha #12)

Uncle Duke taught me to throw a proper punch, and even let me break his nose so I'd know how it feels. It hurts your hand like a bitch, that's how it feels. And the crunch of cartilage under your knuckles is awful.

Auntie Cuddy taught me how to fight a much larger male: go for the soft spots and hit as hard as you can. Nuts, throat, eyeballs. No mercy. Keep hitting until they stop moving.

Mom taught me to use whatever's around me as a weapon.

Surreptitiously, I scan the compartment for possible weapons, but there's not much. I don't think much of my chances of disarming the fat fuck beside me, so that's out. No luggage. No, like, vases or encyclopedias or anything heavy.

There, on the floor under the opposite bench: a discarded pencil. Now I just have to figure out how to get my hands on it without getting my throat cut open.

A few long, nauseating minutes later, the compartment door is yanked open, and the man hurls the girl inside.

Her skirt is rumpled up around her hips.

If she was wearing panties, they're gone.

Her top is torn, and the nipple tape is gone.

Her hair is rumpled. Her cheek is red and bruising.

She's got ligature marks around her throat—fingerprints.

She's sobbing silently, and I get the impression that she was told to keep quiet. Slowly, in visible pain, she curls up in the corner of the bench as far to one side as she can get. Blood smears her thighs.

I'm shaking with rage.

I scramble off the bench, moving to comfort her. The man beside me allows it, laughing cruelly as his rapist friend sits beside him. They murmur to each other in low tones, chuckling. Probably sharing awful details.

I trip on purpose so my knees hit the floor, and I crawl across the compartment for the girl, wrapping one arm around her while fumbling under the bench for the pencil.

I snag it with my middle and index fingers and tuck it inside the waistband of my skirt—the only hiding spot I can think of under the conditions.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I whisper to the girl. "I couldn't stop him. I'm sorry."

Staring at nothing, the girl just weeps.

This just got a whole hell of a lot more real.

The men mutter to each other—Not-Raper glances at the girl and his eyes narrow in on her bruised cheek and purpling throat; he gestures at her and then at the man.

Cue another argument.

Raper gesture at me.

Oh no. No, no, no.

Not-Raper gives me a speculative look.

Shit.

I fight nauseated horror, fight to stay calm.

What did Mom say to do in a situation like this?

Go along with it. Stay calm. Wait for the opportunity and then take it.

Don't hesitate. Better to take the opportunity and die trying than to let them get away with it.

Cause as much pain as possible. But wait for the right moment .

Use whatever you can. Do what you have to do.

Put the nice parts of yourself in a box deep down inside and lock it away.

Leave only the fury and the hate and the survivalist.

Survive at all costs; there’s therapy for everything else.

He rises to his feet, knife blade tapping at his thigh. His eyes find mine—cruel, cold, lecherous. Yeah, this is about to happen.

He jerks his head at the door.

I just stare at him.

He grabs my hand and yanks me to my feet, wraps one arm around me and puts the knife blade in my ribs, hidden between our bodies and his fat fuck arm.

Out the door.

I can't swallow past the hot lump of horrified, terrified nausea. My heart hammers a mile a minute in my ears.

My hands shake.

The pencil is a cold rod wedged between my skirt and my belly, just above my vagina.

Wait. Not here. The hallway is exposed and too narrow. The knife point is wickedly sharp—I feel a drop of blood trickle down my skin.

The toilet is just down the hall at the end of the car. We reach it all too soon, and he yanks it open, shoves me in.

I stumble forward into the tiny space; he has to pull the knife away from me so he can fold his bulk into the space with me and close the door after us.

Collapsing against the far wall, I’m not faking the breathless sob of terror that rips from my throat.

Fumble at my skirt for the pencil—almost drop it in the open toilet.

Grip it so that the length of the pencil and the sharp point face up. Huddle against the wall, shivering, sobbing.

I hear a belt buckle jingle.

A hand paws at my belly, yanks at my top, pulling a tit free. A rough, vicious, clammy hand grasps greedily at me as he shifts behind me.

"Not fight, is over quick." His breath is hot on my ear, stinking of halitosis and garlic and onions and cigarettes.

I bet it's over quick, you fat fuck.

Can you even find your pathetic little dick?

I don't say it, but I think it.

Grip the pencil hard. Wait.

He tosses the knife into the little sink and presses a hand onto my back, pushing me down so I'm bent over.

Something hot and squishy nudges my ass cheek as he fumbles at my skirt. My underwear poses a problem—I think he assumed I either wasn't wearing any or they were a thong. Haha, nope. Full coverage bikini-cut. Not so easy to just pull aside.

Which provides me with my moment.

He grumbles in frustration as he hunts blindly for the gusset—the clumsy oaf couldn't find my pussy if you gave him a map and a flashlight.

About to vomit, I wait and wait as he tries to get the gusset aside. He finally manages it, and then has to use both hands—one to hold my panties aside and the other to grip his tiny, pathetic little dick.

You fucked up, my dude. And now you die.

I pull my hips forward, brace both hands against the wall, and then slam my ass backward into him as hard as I can.

He flies backward in the tiny space, crashing against the door with a loud crunch.

His pants are around his ankles, his sagging, fish-belly-white stomach sagging over his dick, which barely protrudes past his belly.

Yes, I'm fat-shaming the motherfucker and dick size-shaming him.

And now I'm about to fucking murder him.

I spin, teeth gritted and bared as I let out a low, teeth-clenched scream of rage.

Drive the pencil into his eyeball. Jelly squishes messily, but I refuse to stop.

Push it deeper. Place my palm on the eraser and smash my fist onto the back of my hand as hard as I can.

The pain of the pencil digging into my hand is a small price to pay for the way he twitches, gasping quietly, and starts slumping to the floor.

I let him go, staggering away as he twitches and goes still.

Holy fuck.

I killed him.

I vomit into the toilet.

His knife is in the sink. I grab it and then rinse my mouth out. Wash my hands.

Shaking like a leaf, I try not to look at the fat, ugly, half-naked, dead guy at my feet.

The dead guy I killed with a pencil.

At least I’m not raped?

I puke again.

Fuck, that was awful.

Way, way too close.

Now what? Eventually, the other guy is going to come looking. Can I stop the train? Find help? Do I go back for the girl?

Part of me says no. I'm only in this situation because I tried to help her. But…

Fuck.

I hold the knife in a shaky fist, creep out of the toilet, and close the door. It's night, so the hallway is empty, everyone is either sleeping or trying to.

I make my way toward the compartment, peek into the window. She's huddled where she was, staring at nothing, heedless of the tears tracking down her cheeks. On the bench opposite, the thug stares at her, absently fondling himself while smirking.

I've never understood how men get to a point where the only way they can get off is rape. What happens to them that such a vile, violent, selfish, degrading, evil act becomes normal? Funny, even?

I'm starting to understand The Punisher.

Killian was into that comic for awhile, and he liked to sound off to me about it, so I'm pretty familiar with the character.

This motherfucker needs to die, slowly. And I’m feeling ready to oblige—Punisher-style.

Nice Bryn is in a cage. This version of me is…kinda scary, TBH.

I try to catch the girl's eye, but she's not seeing anything.

Fuck it.

I tap on the glass with the knife blade—Raper's eyes flick to me, widening when they see me grinning at him, his partner's knife in my hand.

I don't know what comes over me, but I yank my top up and flash him, use both hands to flip him off, and then take off running down the corridor.

I hear the door slam open and heavy footsteps lumbering behind me.

I'm running toward the front of the train, slamming into one wall and then the other as the train sways side to side. I reach the end of the car too soon, slamming into it before I’ve fully slowed down, knocking the air out of my lungs.

The next few seconds stretch out like a slow-mo scene in a horror movie where the idiot heroine suddenly forgets how to door. Do I remember how to door? Yes, I do…after a split-second of blind panic. Sorry, horror movie heroines—I get it, now.

I stumble through the cold, rocking space between cars, the black rubber seal between the cars accordioning as the cars shift and sway. Through to the next car—another long hallway. Closed doors. People are sleeping in the compartments.

Glance back—he's not far behind me. What's my end game, here? Where am I going? Reach the front of the train, and then what? Jump off? Barefoot and half-naked?

Fuck that.

Filled with hate, rage, and a bloodthirsty need to watch this evil fuck bleed out at my feet like the last guy, I stop running. Grip the knife blade up, sharp edge up, lowering myself into a combat crouch.

With a cruel grin, he produces his own knife—a much bigger one.

Um.

Oops.

Still not running.

Uncle Duke's words ring in my head: everyone gets cut in a knife fight, so the only way to win is to either run away or be faster with the blade. But if you stay and fight, you're going to get cut. That’s not a maybe.

Well, fuck it. There's nowhere to run and only so many places to hide.