Page 13 of Delta

That man is going to die, and I'm going to kill him. And it’s not going to be pretty or quick.

I wait for him to bring the girl back, and I think back to the self-defense lessons given to me by…well, a variety of people.

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.