by Krymzen Hall

Created on: June 14, 2009   Last Updated: June 19, 2009

The rapid beat of my heart, how I pant instead of breathe, my lack of visual due to this blindfold, all remind me that life belongs to no one. And that death is sometimes caused by entrapment of one's own design.

My submissive side wants to plead for mercy. My dominant, take no crap and even less prisoners side, wants to taunt him about his obviously dysfunctional upbringing. But I can't upset him.

And I can't cry. Rapists love fear. They live for it, die for it, maim for it, and kill for it. I need to think if I'm going to stay alive. Wanting to stay alive? That's a switch.

The cold, metal cargo hold in which I'm sitting gives me no relief from this bumpy ride. I think he's hit every pothole on whatever road we're traveling. This plain, white van is empty except for the predator and me, the prey. I guess he wants a no-frills abduction.

We stop. I hear him slide the door. He yanks me out, checks my blindfold. Yes, bastard, I'm still blindfolded.

When will this man stop pushing me to walk like I'm a prisoner of war?

I feel twigs under my feet, the cold air draping my body like a sheet freshly pulled from the linen closet. Ouch. You mean I'm surrounded by mosquitoes?

I brush up against something prickly. I'm not stupid. This clown has led me into the woods. Why didn't I take self-defense class seriously? Never allow an abductor to drag you to another scene, no matter what. The odds of homicide increase. But I wasn't prepared.

I didn't think a routine walk to contemplate suicide would have led to abduction.

We stop again. He uncovers my eyes. And yes, I'm in the middle of nowhere. Just me, this rapist, and his knife.

"On the ground," he says.

I see the shimmer coming from the blade. That sharp piece of metal that can I either take my life, or save it.

Grab the blade. Grab the blade. Grab the blade. The words are coming back to me. Grab the freakin blade. This time, I'm taking it seriously, redeeming myself for getting into this mess.

Quickly, and with all the courage I can muster, I wrap my hand around the knife's edge and squeeze.

My self-defense instructor was right. This guy thinks I'm crazier than he is. Momentarily, he's caught off guard while my hand sears with pain, wallows in blood.

But I have my outlet.

He actually thinks I'm going down? Nah-ah. I have two kids waiting for me at home. My selfish brain is finally thinking about what impact my death would have on them.

As he stands bewildered, I knee him in his weapon of choice.

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