“No!” I try to get away, but he doesn’t let go, and the dress tears as I jump away only to stumble forward into another one’s arms when he doesn’t let go of my dress.
“That’s already better,” someone says as I’m turned around, jerked toward another man as more of my dress is ripped away. I’m spun this way and that until the dress is at my feet in tatters, my bra and panties on top of it. It’s only then they let me go, and I turn to the soldier who brought me here, stumbling away from the table.
This can’t happen. It can’t.
He grins as he drags on his cigarette, makes a point of looking me over, and I do cover myself from him, from them.
That flash of a scene I don’t understand slices through me again. It’s like a lightning bolt, quick and electric, and it splits my brain in two. A place similar to this one. A basement. The smell is the same. Damp. Dank. A familiar face cuts into the picture, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
I stagger backward, set my hand against the cool wall to steady myself. Sweat pools under my arms and along my hairline. I’m going to be sick.
“Serve my friends,” the man who brought me is saying.
I blink. Try to focus. This can’t be happening. Please God, don’t let this be happening.
“I want to go to my room.”
“Serve, bitch.”
Someone chuckles, the music is turned up louder, and between that and the blood pounding against my ears, I am deaf.
“I’m thirsty over here, sweetheart,” someone calls out, holding up an empty bottle of beer.
I keep my eyes on the soldier who brought me down. Think. Think. Get away. Survive.
“Serve drinks, or you’ll be serving something else.”
No.
I pick up a new bottle of beer, walk over to the thirsty man and set it down, taking his empty one and holding it by the neck. I don’t have to wait long for one of them to grab my ass, and the instant he does, I smash the bottle against the poker table and turn on him holding the bottle with its sharp edges between us.
But there are a dozen of them and one of me, and in an instant, I’m on my knees in the broken glass surrounded by them, pushed forward until I’m on all fours, glass digging into my hands and knees. I feel them all around me—their breath, their bodies, sweat, and liquor, and smoke. Someone pushes my face down on that filthy floor. I can’t process this. Can’t process that this is going to happen to me. I want to fight. I need to fight. I’d rather die than take this. I’d rather die. But it’s no use. There are too many of them. And they’re too strong.