He smelled rotten, not fowl but sweet. He smelled of day old perfume and rotting fruit. His breath. Cold against my neck, as if death herself was embracing me. Taking me to her breast to bring me home. The man held down with what felt like the world pressing on my chest. Sweat from his brow dripping on my lips. The salty taste remaining in the back of my throat. Quietly, as if he were a church mouse he whispered a deep growl, "hold still. Squirm and it'll hurt more." I stopped. Fighting seemed hopeless after those words. I didn't know what would happen next. That's when I felt it, a strong electrical pulse. I couldn't breathe. Everything went white.
