It’s not the fear and it’s not the pain, it’s the claustrophobia of utter helplessness that’s so unbearable. Turrón’s knees are concrete blocks on my legs. He squeezes my breasts and I go berserk. I claw at his arms, twist my neck from one side to the other, try to headbutt him. When he clamps his hand over my mouth I grab at the soft flesh with my teeth. He screams and snatches his hand away. I jab at him with my elbow, jerk my knee into his back. Something connects and his balance wavers. For an incredible moment I think that I can get him off me, that I can beat him, then the adrenalin drains away and, with it, the last of my strength. He growls something, pinning me down tighter. I feel his body hardening and I know with absolute certainty that I am going to be raped.

I start pleading then. Unconnected random pleadings. For mercy, for my children, for him not to hurt me. He puts the gun in my mouth and after that it all becomes about survival. My world shrinks to him and me. I acquiesce, go soft. Everything to do with rape I will accept and will therefore ignore; the pain, the crushing weight of his body, the dirty fingers scrabbling inside me. It’s the smaller things I’m aware of, the sting of dirt in my cut lip, a stone under my head, the grate of the metal against my teeth; and I can’t help it, I think of Estella and I wonder how hard she fought for her life and her child.