It was so oppressively hot, she felt faint.
A white car stopped, grimy, needing a vigorous wash. She looked inside. The driver was a man about as old as her father. In the back sat a young man of about twenty. She was so tired, she decided to take the two seats next to the driver. After all, she knew she did not have to worry because the driver was a seat away and she was not alone.
She rode in the car distracted, thinking of other things: the strange behavior of her boyfriend, the engagement of her sister, the pleasures of air-conditioning.
She did not know exactly when she no longer recognized the route. She told the driver this was not the road to her house. The driver looked at her, smiling, showing teeth that turned her stomach. The passenger seemed imperturbable. What was going on? She told the driver to stop, but he addressed her with the same nauseating smile. This was strange. She realized she must escape, get out of the car. The man in the back seemed indifferent to her complaints. Why would he not help her? She should get out, but the car drove fast in a neighborhood she had never seen before. She was not afraid. Not yet. She felt overwhelmed, unsure what to do, but not afraid yet. She knew she must act, and quickly. She put her hand on the door handle, but she felt a coldness on her slick temple, a metal coldness. She did not dare look back. The driver landed his large brown hand on her arm. When she tried to free her arm, his grip tightened, like a vice. The contrast between the whiteness of her arms and the dark of his fingers frightened her. Her dry throat tightened when she heard a click. The click of a revolver. She felt the veins in her temple pulse with such force, she thought the hand holding the gun would certainly feel the palpitations. It was only at that moment that she realized the passenger held the gun. She also realized she was at their mercy. She tried to master her mounting terror. She anxiously calculated the value of everything she had on her. This process reassured her. She would give them the gold watch, a gift from her father. She would give them the gold chain she had received from her stepmother six months ago for her sixteenth birthday. And of course, all the money she had on her.
Lost in her thoughts, she did not notice the car had stopped at an indistinct plot of land. The driver got out of the car, made the round to her side and opened the door. Her first reflex when she got out was to give him a kick on his shin. The cry which escaped him launched a horrifying panic in her. She knew she was going to bitterly regret her action. The man with the gun was already behind her, holding her firmly by the shoulders, the revolver aimed at the nape of her neck. She received the first blow on her stomach. Slut. Fucking bitch. The second blow, a slap across her face, caused a rattle in her head. She did not pay attention to the pain in her jaw, or the blood running from her lips. She came to realize what these men wanted. They did not want her money, or her watch.
For the first time, she dared look the driver in the eyes. What she saw froze her. A scary mixture of lust and disdain. The desire was not of coveting, or lust, not even of possessing. It was a primitive desire, dominance, aggression. For the first time, she wanted to die. She did not wish to suffer what these men wanted to inflict.
The man who held her shoulders, raked his gun along the naked skin of her back. She did not know if the shiver that ran up her back was from fear or disgust. The driver dragged his palm along her chest. His hand glided the length of her throat and rested on her bloody lips. She did not know where she got the courage to bite. She bit, gripping his fingers with her teeth the way her dog held on to bones. She did not want to, could not release her prize. The taste of blood, was it her lips or his fingers? She never figured it out because the punch she received in her kidneys blinded her. The younger man threw her on the ground, while the other, holding his injured fingers, kept repeating, Slut. Whore. You will pay me for this, bitch.
The man with the gun was stretched out on top of her, holding her arms with one hand, pulling the thin straps of her dress with his revolver. Her bust was now naked. She looked with horror as his mouth engulfed one of her breasts. He bit savagely. He lifted his head, a smile plastered on his lips, a smile disfigured by ugly desire. Are you feeling pain, whore? He lowered his head to kiss her, but she tried to turn her head. I don’t want to kiss you, bitch! I want to shove the gun in. Slut!
She tried to strike out, but the other, the older one, crouched down and held her arms. With his free hand the younger man rubbed her breasts, with the other, lifted her dress, then pulled her panties down with the tip of his gun. He ran the cold gun along the inside of her thigh.
She did not want to believe this was happening to her. She wanted to wake up and realize this was nothing more than a nightmare. She raised her eyes and saw the pale sky. Blue, no cloud in sight. The chill of the gun as it touched her vagina brought her back to the cold reality. She was going to suffer. Of that she was certain. She would not look at them.
The sky was hazy, or was it her vision? She felt the gun moving in and out of her vagina. The man placed his knees on her legs, forcing her to remain open. The gun was practically in her now.
The sky. Where was the sky? It had disappeared. She felt she was about to dissolve as well. She heard the older man heap insults. No, just one. Whore. The word rang in her ears. She continually searched for the sky, but she saw nothing but the man with the gun, standing, blocking her line of sight, unbuttoning his jeans, one button at a time. He pulled down his pants and threw himself on her. She felt the heat of his erect penis enter her. She only saw the sky for a second because the pain caused her to faint. When she regained consciousness, the pain seemed intensified by the frenetic movement of the man within her. She heard his breathing accelerate. She heard his groan. Or was it her that groaned? Suddenly, the body of the man stopped moving, and he fell heavily on top of her in a death rattle. She lifted her head to look at the sky. It was darker, but the sky was there, assuring her. She was still alive. She was not dead. When she saw the older man take the place of the younger man, she folded herself up, as if, with such a movement, she would be able to stop his penetration. He kicked her, forcing her to curl up more. It was not the sky she looked at now, but the muddy earth. He yanked her by the hair, forcing her to turn around, hitting her. She was suffocated by his weight. The other man took his turn holding her down. You see these fingers you bit? I am going to shove them in like. The rest of the phrase hung in the air, suspended, because the pain this time was so sudden, she could hear only her own cries. He penetrated her savagely. She thought he was going to pierce her.
The sky had disappeared. She closed her eyes, out of pain, out of bitterness, out of shame. She felt him going in and out of her like an animal in a rut. With every movement of his body, he emitted a cry, and she groaned in pain.
When at last, with a cry, he fell on her, she dared to open her eyes. She allowed her eyes to wander along. She felt dispossessed of her own body. She tried to recapture a visual support, something to get a hold of, but she could only discern a frail silhouette in the distance. The end of the nightmare? Salvation? Someone was there. She felt a strange relief. The person would call for help. She would not die.