The dead guy I killed with a pencil.
At least I’m not raped?
I puke again.
Fuck, that was awful.
Way, way too close.
Now what? Eventually, the other guy is going to come looking. Can I stop the train? Find help? Do I go back for the girl?
Part of me says no. I'm only in this situation because I tried to help her. But…
Fuck.
I hold the knife in a shaky fist, creep out of the toilet, and close the door. It's night, so the hallway is empty, everyone is either sleeping or trying to.
I make my way toward the compartment, peek into the window. She's huddled where she was, staring at nothing, heedless of the tears tracking down her cheeks. On the bench opposite, the thug stares at her, absently fondling himself while smirking.
I've never understood how men get to a point where the only way they can get off is rape. What happens to them that such a vile, violent, selfish, degrading, evil act becomes normal? Funny, even?
I'm starting to understand The Punisher.
Killian was into that comic for awhile, and he liked to sound off to me about it, so I'm pretty familiar with the character.
This motherfucker needs to die, slowly. And I’m feeling ready to oblige—Punisher-style.
Nice Bryn is in a cage. This version of me is…kinda scary, TBH.
I try to catch the girl's eye, but she's not seeing anything.
Fuck it.
I tap on the glass with the knife blade—Raper's eyes flick to me, widening when they see me grinning at him, his partner's knife in my hand.
I don't know what comes over me, but I yank my top up and flash him, use both hands to flip him off, and then take off running down the corridor.
I hear the door slam open and heavy footsteps lumbering behind me. I'm running toward the front of the train, slamming into one wall and then the other as the train sways side to side. I reach the end of the car too soon, slamming into it before I’ve fully slowed down, knocking the air out of my lungs.
The next few seconds stretch out like a slow-mo scene in a horror movie where the idiot heroine suddenly forgets how to door. Do I remember how to door? Yes, I do…after a split-second of blind panic. Sorry, horror movie heroines—I get it, now.
I stumble through the cold, rocking space between cars, the black rubber seal between the cars accordioning as the cars shift and sway. Through to the next car—another long hallway. Closed doors. People are sleeping in the compartments.
Glance back—he's not far behind me. What's my end game, here? Where am I going? Reach the front of the train, and then what? Jump off? Barefoot and half-naked?
Fuck that.
Filled with hate, rage, and a bloodthirsty need to watch this evil fuck bleed out at my feet like the last guy, I stop running. Grip the knife blade up, sharp edge up, lowering myself into a combat crouch.
With a cruel grin, he produces his own knife—a much bigger one.
Um.
Oops.
Still not running.
Uncle Duke's words ring in my head: everyone gets cut in a knife fight, so the only way to win is to either run away or be faster with the blade. But if you stay and fight, you're going to get cut. That’s not a maybe.
