Page 14 of Delta

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.