Marya fights them, scrambling at the edge of the parking lot, half naked, sobbing, panting, striking at them with her fists, trying to kick them in the groin. She knows, Marya does, how to fight. But they’re whooping and laughing and shouting, Easy does it! Hey, easy does it!

Nobody’s going to hurt you, Marya—

For Christ’s fucking sake—

She strikes one of them in the throat. Kicks and kicks, wild, frantic, still not screaming, not screaming aloud, until one of them catches her by the ankle, yanks her off her feet. Hooting with laughter: but is it Stan’s voice rising, furious? She’s crazy! You better let her go! The fuck-face ugly bitch!

Grappling in the mud. The harsh raindrops still falling, pelting. Her breasts, terribly bare: exposed: helpless. Her hair in her eyes, in her mouth. She’s choking. Someone sits on her stomach, holding her chin in his hand, shaking her head from side to side. Who the hell do you think you’re kicking, fuck-face! Who the hell do you think you are!

She remembers, afterward, one of them prying her legs apart—she remembers him prodding and jabbing at her—trying to enter her—trying to force his penis in her—but she might have squirmed free, arching her back, or one of the others hauled him away—and then Lester Hughey—it was Lester—scrambled over her with the shears chortling Clippety-clippety-clip!—take care not to hurt yourself, sweetheart! He gripped her in an embrace, his forearm around her neck, and still she threw herself from side to side, and the shears’ blades stabbed at her cheek, narrowly missed an eye, and the boys were all shouting That’s it, that’s it, you got her, that’s it, and panting and grunting Lester brought the blades of the shears up against the nape of her neck, as close to her skull as he could manage, and began cutting.

Six

SIX