Second chapter in a day - please let me know hwat you think.
CAUTION - Triggers for Sexual Assault in this chapter.
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"Get up."
English from the captor. Always covered from head to toe – the only thing she was able to see was his eyes – but now – Emma had given up trying to tell the difference between them. They were – all horrible.
And Emma used the wall behind her to stand up, her bare feet gripping the ground as best as she could. And then she looked down at Lea, struggling to stand to her feet while holding her side and groaning in pain. Without thought, Emma reached down, put her hands between Lea's arms, and helped lift her to her feet.
A small laugh from the man hit Emma's ears as he reached over. Emma flinched and pulled away – but then saw he was going for Lea.
He laced his fingers between Lea's hair, pulling her face close to his, and he whispered, "American bitch…" in a way that sent shivers up Emma's spine.
Lea's face showed she was terrified, her eyes wide as she tried to pull her head away from his face. But he held her there in place while his other hand reached out and ran down her throat – chuckling and said, "Scared?"
And, Lea's face turned to a stoic look – except for her lips. Emma could see her lips trembling as the man traced his fingers down her neck to her chest – tracking along the lining of Lea's jacket.
It was silent for a few seconds.
And Emma wanted to jump in and stop whatever was going to happen. Wanted to make it stop.
But as fast as the moment happened, the man then laughed and let go, gesturing for both women to go out the door. Outside.
Without a mask on.
Emma went first, and soon found herself surrounded by two men who pushed her up the stone stairs outside.
Outside into the night – into the breeze of the desert. She could hear animals – and people talking. And trucks humming.
There was a truck – a truck with a canvas covering over the back – and the men pushed her toward that – urging her in Arabic to get up. To get up.
And she got up.
And turned to help Lea up.
Until she heard, in the darkness, a loud shriek from her friend.
And she looked.
In time to watch the four or five men surround Lea.
"Stop." Lea called out.
But it was to no avail.
Instead, Emma watched as the men formed a circle around her, and, taunting her in Arabic, pushed her from one man to the next, each of them pulling at her hair, her clothes, tripping her, but not allowing her to stay on the ground before again pushing and pulling her.
Emma whispered, "No…" Not her friend.
And Lea called out, "Jackass! Stop!"
She held her own, taking a few swings as she went from one to the next.
But Emma could see that as one of the men unzipped his pants and another shoved Lea to the ground in front of him, Emma could see – the tears – on the woman's face.
Then Emma had to close her eyes. Not simply because she couldn't look at the atrocities happening in front of her. Not because she didn't want to be exposed to the things they were doing. Not because she couldn't bear to see her friend hurt like that.
But because she couldn't imagine the shame Lea would feel – the pain and embarrassment. And Emma knew this was something that she shouldn't tread into.
Instead, Emma just listened as the laughter – it never stopped. Sometimes collectively – sometimes individually. The laughter embedded itself into Emma's brain, making it impossible for her to do anything other than bury her head into her knees.
And the cries.
The pain.
The begging.
The whimpering.
The loud, blood curdling pain that met Emma's ears.
Then the cries stopped.
And Emma only looked up when she felt the truck moving – as a man shoved Lea's body up into the truck. And Lea just laid there on the bed of the truck, and Emma pulled her friend to the back of the truck – just in time before the truck took off through the desert.
It was a few minutes of bouncing around before Emma looked down at the woman in her arms.
And then she did the little thing she could.
She pushed Lea into a sitting position at the back of the truck. Then pulled up her pants. And buttoned her shirt and zipped up her jacket.
And brushed her friend's hair back away from her face. And looked into her eyes.
And saw tears. Tears running down the bruised and scarred face.
And pain. Pain. Humiliation. Shame.
And for the first time, Emma opened her mouth and allowed her words to flow out. Quiet. Soft. A little timid.
But she had to say something.
And she pulled the woman's head into her lap, running her fingers through Lea's hair, and whispered, "I'm here… I'm here…"
The only sign that Lea heard Emma's words was the way her fingers curled around Emma's hand – holding on tight as the tears and sobs overtook the woman's body.
