Monochrome by H.M. Jones Page B

clutching, rushed at her and grabbed her around the waist. He was much larger than her but he was clumsy.
    He threw her to the ground with ferocity. She smacked her elbow against the tiled floor and yelled out in pain. She crawled away backwards from the brown-haired man, noticing the other man was still immobile next to the shower. The brown-haired man stood over her, a victorious gleam in his sinister black eyes. He was sure he had her. She wanted him to believe it.
    He stood over her for a second then sprang down on top of her, using his superior weight to anchor her to the frozen tiles. He sat part way up on her body and leaned over, grasping and holding her hands above her head with one hand, fumbling with his zipper with the other. His dead eyes shone with hunger and delight as they ogled her bare chest. She needed to act now, while he was preoccupied with undoing his pants.
    Fear shoved aside, she fed her rage into her hips and made a bucking motion to throw him off balance. “Get off me, you sick fuck!” she bellowed.
    It worked, somewhat. He fell to the side of her, grunting, unharmed but furious at the insult to his manhood. How dare a woman best him? She knew his type. She spun in a practiced motion but her feet were unsteady on the wet floor, so the force of her well-aimed round-house lacked muster. Even so, being gently kicked in the groin hurts.
    He lurched and cursed, a grotesque horny Igor. She waited for him to spring again and landed a direct palm into his nose, which spewed blood. He cursed and fell backwards, cradling his broken face.
    Abigail stood and jumped incautiously around the bleeding man, trying for her dress. Who knew what kind of other sickos were lurking the halls? He stumbled to his feet, his nose still spurting. To him, pain was lust, the fight foreplay. His injuries only fueled his speed.
    “You cunt! I’m going to tear you up for that.”
    He wiped his spouting nose with a stained blue t-shirt, his black, hairy stomach muffining over his dirty jeans, and launched himself at her fleeing back. He succeeded in knocking her to the floor, and trapped her under his oppressive mass. Hitting her cheekbone on the rock-hard ground left her disoriented, her muscles mushy. A warm drip of sweat or blood splashed against the skin of her back and she cried out in horror. He righted himself so that she was trapped.
    He held her to the ground with one bulbous knee and forced down his pants. She thrashed her legs and screamed so loudly her voice broke. Laughing over her screams, he roughly spread her legs apart with his knees and leaned forward. She thrashed wildly, not able to see the monster on her back to fight him. His face was determined and bloody. He held himself and pushed at her from behind, unable to penetrate as she thrashed. But she felt his disgusting worm writhe against her thighs, and she gagged over the nausea gathering in her throat.
    Suddenly, another man, wearing only torn jeans, raced through the bathroom door. The man straddling her was too intent on his sick task to notice. She stopped thrashing and released a throat-rending sob. She was exhausted from the long day and from the struggle. It was impossible to fend off the man behind her and the man who had just entered. She was going to die in this horrible place, or wish she had. She rested her bruised cheek against frigid tiles and stared blankly at the black shower curtain draped over an unmoving mass.
    But the third man didn’t come at her. He grabbed the shoulder of the bleeding man and twisted him around. Abigail was freed from the frozen tiles; she turned in time to see the green light above the sink reflected on the new arrival’s sopping, dark blonde hair. She stood on noddle legs, covering her body with her arms.
    Ishmael kneed the brown-haired man in the face, directly into his broken nose. The man fell backwards, just to Abigail’s side. Ishmael shoved the man to the ground and sat on him, thrusting his head onto the