She couldn’t draw in enough breath.
Panic was at the edge of her consciousness – what if she couldn’t get air into her lungs? It felt as though they had been cut in half, that she had already maximized their capacity. Then why was she so short of breath?
Voices became a blur of sound. His voice, however, was distinct, sexualizing her body, targeting her breasts. She wanted to cry. Why couldn’t he stop? Every protest she lodged at him was met with even crueler comments. So she had given up. He either did not hear her distress or, if he did, simply didn’t care.
The weight she had lost had crept back. She lost interest in looking feminine. Her baggy, over-sized t-shirts were now preferable to the blouses she had once found joy in. Being invisible seemed safer, somehow.
But she wasn’t. Because he still saw her as his target.
And the man next to him wasn’t stopping him. The man next to him was looking at her with desire, not for herself, for her essential humanity, but as an outlet for his own needs.
Can no one see the terror in her? Are they so used to the first man’s abusive nature that they see nothing wrong with it?
She didn’t know. Worse, she didn’t know if she could trust them.
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