I wondered then if I could have fought harder—I hadn’t bitten off his earlobe and spit it in his face, I hadn’t jammed my knee into his testicles with all the force of my starved eighteen-year-old body, I hadn’t leaped to my feet and rammed a well-placed heel into his kneecap. I pleaded, I cried, and finally I screamed for help, but I didn’t hurt him back because I didn’t want to die. I remember the pillow in my face and, when there wasn’t air enough left for screaming, thinking breathe, breathe, breathe.
