My shriek is cut short when he slams into me and pushes his forearm against my throat. I stare at him in terror. Clutching at his arm, I realize I was wrong. It’s not half as frightening to have him unseen somewhere near than have him pressed up against me, choking me.
“Yes,” he sneers and squeezes my body between his unrelenting frame and the unyielding wall, his face a blur of white teeth and cold eyes. I make a strangled noise, trying to bend his arm away from my throat. He smirks and leans closer. “Didn’t you think I’d be watching the escape route, sweetheart? Do you think I’m stupid?”
I don’t think he’s stupid, but I have no way of telling him because I can’t get any air into my lungs. I jerk and twitch in his grip, my arms flailing. I beat at him, and at the walls of the elevator to get loose, but he doesn’t budge.
He’ll kill me!
My mind reels. I don’t want to die. No matter how much I’ve felt like it from time to time since the rape, I now realize it. I want to live. I fight tooth and nail to get him off me. Panic heaves in my chest, the adrenaline consuming the little oxygen I have left. I kick at his legs. It makes him stumble back and I inhale one painful breath, then he’s on me again.
“Relax, Anna,” he whispers in my ear. “Don’t fight me. It’ll be over soon.”