Page 3 of Fire Meets Fire

It’s been months since I last saw action. Maybe I’ve grown sloppy, or maybe my over-confidence made the deity look unkindly on me. But suddenly, my feet are swept right out from under me. I land hard, on the ground, my assailant throwing himself over my chest, pinning me down. Winded, I notice how much heavier he is than I am, but I’m already calculating how to get free when I see his fist coming for me.

There’s no time to evade it. I suck in air and prepare.

But the punch doesn’t land. At the last moment, he pulls back and sweeps the hood off my head, protesting loudly, “You’re a fuckin’ bitch.”

Is that an assessment of my character? If so, it’s unfair. He doesn’t know me and hasn’t enough for an informed view. If it’s a comment on my gender, then hey, that’s fair. I hope for the latter. While I’m never one to make anything of the lack of a dick, in some circumstances, it plays to my advantage as I note he seems unwilling to hit a female.

Instead of head butting his nose, which would have been my next go-to move—why continue to fight when I could take advantage of his weakness?—I emphasise my feminine voice, raising it an octave. “Get off me,” I plead, contenting myself with a few weak struggles.

He might stop at violence, but he’s not going to go easy on me. “Give it up. I caught you stealing from us.”

He’s correct. He has. I can’t give him any argument as he’s in the right, but that doesn’t mean I’m back to plan A. Although he’s secured my hands in one of his meaty fists, I brace and position myself. Unfortunately, he reads the signs and my head meets only air as he hastily rears away. My refusal to give in obviously excites him. As a smirk comes to his face, I feel something harden beneath me.

“Yeah, just keep that up.” He grinds his pelvis into me and his grin widens.

It’s then I feel the telltale signs that my body’s going to betray me. Spots start swirling in front of my eyes as my mind shoots back to a different place and time.

I’ve learned not to fight. It’s what they like. Fighting just means more pain and violation and never gets me free. There are too many of them, and I’m too weak. I haven’t had a proper meal or more than a sip of filthy water for weeks.

I can’t hear any screams coming from the other tents. Maybe their torture has stopped, or maybe they are all dead.

All I can do is lie here and take whatever they want to dish out…

“I’ll let you up, but you run? I’ll catch you and make you regret it.”

His gruffAmericanvoice pulls me back out of my nightmare before it swallows me whole, momentarily anchoring me to the present. Fighting to breathe, I take a moment to come back tomy senses. I’m incapable of doing anything more than giving a nod.

Memories swirling around my traitorous brain have more power to overwhelm me than anything else. As always, my brief mental foray into the past leaves me physically weakened. Remembering when I didn’t have the capability or strength to protect myself from the worst knocks my confidence now. Almost cowed, when free, it takes time to stand. To try to disguise how much I’m shaking, I brush myself off, noticing bruises the recent fight must have left. But they’re not serious, paling into insignificance as though inflicted by an amateur.

When I feel my heart rate has slowed a little, I raise my eyes and take in my captor. His head is bald with a rounded face and tidy beard. His eyes are the brightest blue I’ve ever seen, and the crease lines around them suggest he’s nearing middle age. He’s tall, more than half a foot taller than me, which has to put him at six foot six.

He’s examining me too. His brow is creased and his eyes wide open with a look of confusion, as though he can’t understand why I’ve gone from whirling dervish to an approximation of a typical weak female. I can’t explain that all my energy has been zapped and I’m hanging on to consciousness by a thread. For now, I’m just relieved I’m still standing.

His lips eventually part and I wait for him to press his accusation of theft, when instead, he poses a different question. “How the fuck did you learn to fight like that?”

In the Army.Well, the service had honed the abilities I’d already had to gain to survive. “The better question would be who forced me to learn.”

His eyes narrow and a hardness seems to surround them, making me wonder if he’s one of those protector types. “Who?” His shrug belies my thinking, suggesting he really doesn’t really give a damn.

Keeping my brain focused on putting together words might help me stave off one of the episodes I know is approaching. It’s the only reason I answer him. After a heavy sigh, I disclose, “Maybe it was the foster dad who thought he had a right to put his hands down a ten-year-old’s panties. Maybe it was the boyfriend who thought he could sell his teenage girlfriend to his buddies. Or maybe it was the cop who thought he’d exchange the fictional speeding ticket I supposedly earned for a sexual favour.”

His expression doesn’t even flicker. “Am I supposed to be impressed? Or devastated on your behalf?” He takes a step toward me. “Maybe your sob story would have more effect if I hadn’t just caught you stealing red-handed.”

I reclaim the distance he’d just closed by taking a step back, and the way the light falls brings his face into sharp relief.

I’ve faced down enemies in foreign lands, have been captured and tortured close to the point of death. But never have I seen an expression so cold, nor has a scowl sent such shivers down my spine.

He’s a danger to me, like nobody else.

Which is crazy. I’ve gone head-to-head with worse than him.

Who the fuck is he?

I feel pins and needles in my fingers and try to curl them into my hands. Consciously, I make an effort to steady my breathing. Once again, spots start to flicker in front of my eyes.

I’m utterly helpless. There’s nothing I can do to prevent it, even if this is one of those rare times when I actually have some warning. I know the inevitable is coming and here, in front of me, stands a man who makes my inner essence scream I shouldn’t show any weakness. I use my few remaining lucid moments to stammer out, “Who are you?”

And to process his response as he replies nonchalantly. “Me? I’m your worst fuckin’ nightmare.”

---