Portia
"Look at me."
"No,"
"No?" He smacks again and tears sting my eyes. Then he starts rubbing my butt in lazy circles and my wires must cross because all I should feel is pain. Pain and humiliation and brutal injustice. But his hand on me right now, him holding me like he is, that's not all I feel.
"Look at me," he repeats. I do, a tear sliding down the side of my face.
"What did you think you'd do with a nail file strapped to your thigh like you're some warrior woman?"
"What do you expect me to do? Not fight? Not try to defend myself? I was twelve when I started fighting. I don't know any other way to be. Don't expect me to roll over for you in a day. It's not how I'm wired. I know I'm not a warrior woman. I know you're stronger than me and that you'll probably beat me every time
