Red. Erica Spindler

his fist, punched her.

      His fist connected with her jaw, and her head snapped back, pain shooting with blinding intensity through her skull. She reeled backward and hit the ground, her head cracking against a rock. Pain shot through her head, then light. Brilliant white and blinding.

      Everything went black.

      When Becky Lynn came to, she saw only black, could only draw a shallow breath, closed as she was in the damp, tight box. Disoriented, she tried to move her hands but found them anchored, found her legs nailed down, stretched at a painful angle.

      It took a moment to realize where she was and what was happening, a moment for reality to rudely reassert itself. The weight of a body pressed her into the damp, fecund earth, hands held her immobile. Her clothes had been pushed or torn aside, the night air chilled her skin, although she knew the iciness she felt had little to do with the temperature.

      It was Ricky on top of her. She knew him by his stench.

      Sounds and sensations flashed crazily through her head. The ooze of the earth against her skin, the smell of sweat and mud, the pain of an object being forced into her, sawing and tearing. The paper bag crackled as she flung her head from side to side in an agony of pain and shame.

      A dog began to bark, a high excited sound that ripped through her head, drowning out the sound of Ricky’s labored breathing. Of Buddy’s fear and Tommy’s anticipation. Of her own mewls of despair.

      Ricky grunted with release, like an animal, and fell against her. The sound turned her stomach, and she knew that guttural noise would feed her nightmares forever.

      “Come on, Ricky.” Tommy’s voice shook, and she heard him frantically unbuckling his belt, yanking down his zipper. “You’ve had your shot, give somebody else a cha—”

      The dog started its high-pitched barking again, and a light came on, spilling into the black, followed by the screech of a screen door being opened. “Who’s out there?” a woman called.

      Becky Lynn opened her mouth to cry out, to scream for help, but nothing came out but a ragged whisper, so weak even the boys didn’t hear her.

      “Oh, shit.” Buddy whimpered and released her legs. “Oh, shit, Ricky—”

      “Shut the fuck—”

      “I know somebody’s out there, and y’all better git. I’m callin’ the police. You hear me?”

      The three boys froze. Becky Lynn could feel their sudden tension, could almost hear their thoughts— Buddy’s relief, Tommy’s disappointment, Ricky’s hatred.

      “I’m callin’ the police,” the woman repeated, louder this time. “I’m callin’ ’em now.” The door slapped shut.

      Buddy didn’t wait. He jumped up and ran, stumbling out of the brush and into the road, puking when he reached it.

      “Come on, man.” Tommy sounded panicked, even though he didn’t release her hands. “We gotta go!”

      “Thanks, baby,” Ricky whispered. “And don’t you fret none, I’ll make sure Tommy and Buddy get their turn.”

      He bent his head and took her right nipple into his mouth, sucking it, swirling his tongue over it. She gagged, the tenderness of the gesture grotesque, obscene. He lifted himself from her, and she kicked out blindly and as hard as she could. She caught him in the groin. She knew by the feel and by the sound he made—a high whine of pain—and she wished she could see his face contort.

      “Bitch! Cunt! I’ll—”

      Tommy tugged on Ricky’s arm. “She called the cops, man! We’ve got to get out of here.”

      Ricky must have agreed, for in the next moment, Tommy released her hands, and she heard the two boys run off.

      Becky Lynn clawed at the paper bag, wrenching it off. She ripped at the stiff brown paper, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces, whimpering and grunting like a wounded animal. The paper cut her fingers; they burned and bled, but she kept tearing at the bag until nothing was left but pieces too small and broken to hold on to.

      Shuddering uncontrollably, she slumped to her side and curled into a tight ball.

      6

      Light leaked from the edges of the small, haphazardly covered windows, spilling weakly into the darkness. With a strangled cry of relief, Becky Lynn crawled up onto the sagging front porch.

      Home. She’d made it home at last.

      She rested her forehead against the porch floor, struggling to even her shallow, ragged breathing. She hurt. Her belly, her head and jaw, between her legs. But the physical pain didn’t compare to the ache inside her, the ache that couldn’t be measured in physical terms, the damage that couldn’t be repaired or healed with bandage or salve. Inside, she’d been ripped to pieces.

      She would never be whole again.

      Shaking, Becky Lynn grasped the porch railing and pulled herself to her feet, trembling so badly she feared she would fall. She had no idea of the time, no idea how long she’d lain behind the outbuilding, bleeding and raw, waiting for the wail of the police siren that had never come.

      Images, horrific and unwanted, flashed lightning-like through her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach pitching. She held the vomit back through sheer force of will. She wouldn’t be sick, she wouldn’t allow Ricky and Tommy to take anything more from her—they’d already taken the only things that had been truly hers, the only things that had been worth having. Her body. The last vestige of her girlish idealism. Her hope.

      She crossed the porch to the door, thinking for the first time of her family. She had never been late before, had never failed to show up by dinnertime. She pictured herself, how she must look—dirty, bruised and bloody, her clothes ripped. She curved her shaking fingers around the doorknob. Had anyone worried at her absence? When they saw her, what would they think?

      She opened the door and stepped inside. And smelled the whiskey. Its stench hung in the air like a cloud, and she realized dimly that her father had somehow scraped together enough money for a fifth.

      She shifted her gaze. He sat slumped in front of the television, Randy beside him, pale and tense. Her father didn’t move, but as the door screeched, her brother turned his head. He met her eyes and for one electric moment stared at her, then slid his gaze guiltily away.

      Her brother had known what his friends had planned to do to her.

      She sucked in a sharp breath, the realization spinning through her, bringing her to a point past anger or disbelief, past hysteria. Had her brother encouraged them? Had he laughed with them when they talked about how they would put a bag over her head so they wouldn’t have to look at her while they raped her?

      The sickness threatened to overwhelm her again, and she brought a hand to her mouth, fighting it back. Tears stung her eyes. “How?” she managed to say, her voice thick with tears and grief. “How…could you? You’re my brother.”

      Randy lifted his gaze to hers. She had the brief impression of a deer, frozen in the shocking glare of headlights. His expression, pinched and frightened, took on an ashen pallor.

      “When we were small, remember how we played together? None of the other children would come…near us. Remember?”

      Randy shifted uncomfortably and lowered his eyes once more. She shook her head, her pain nearly unbearable. “I would have done anything to protect you. I did protect you. So many ti—” She curved her arms around herself. “And now you…you let them…do…this to—”

      She choked this last back, unable to take her brother’s guilty silence, the damning truth of that silence, a moment longer. Turning toward the kitchen, she went in search of her mother.

      Glenna Lee sat at the kitchen table, still as a stone, gazing at nothing, her eyes vacant, her hands working at a fold of her robe. Becky Lynn stared at