New Title 7 by Emma Clark

rape? Regardless a sharp object gnawed and gashed my heart.
    Video cut to a black screen followed by footage recorded inside a car. A spotted windshield obscured the exterior and two males snickered.
    Wicked, wicked laughter.
    This newest video zoomed in and focused on the exterior of Cappuccino Palace , where I used to work.
    Coincidence? No.
    Footage played in slow motion as a girl entered the beige building. She was medium height, slim. I recognized her clothes.
    My clothes.
    This girl was me . ME . My hand clamped my lips while I choked on anguished cries.
    "That's her?" A guy asked on the video. It wasn't Brandon's voice.
    "Yep. That's her." He released a drawn-out sigh. "I think her name is Mira—er something." That was Brandon.
    "Really? So you like her, eh?" A chuckle.
    "Fuck yeah. I mean, look at her. She's fuckin' beautiful. Don't you think she's a little hottie?" Another chuckle.
    "Sure. But I prefer blondes with more booty, myself," the friend said, laughing and yucking it up. "Hers is a little on the flat side. I like something to hold onto when I fuck doggy style."
    "Psssh. Bullshit."
    Bitter bile shot to my throat.
    "So what are you gonna do? Ask her out or record video to watch later while jacking off?" He roared with laughter.
    "I dunno. Maybe I'll fuck up her car. That way she'll get stranded, then I can offer her a ride to my house." Brandon laughed so hard he fought for breath.
    Nausea threatened to overflow so I tightened my lips and throat, but couldn't avoid watching this heart-breaking train wreck.
    "You serious, dude? You're gonna fuck up her car?" the guy asked.
    "Hell yeah. One way or another, I'm gonna fuck the shit out of her." More laughter. They were having the time of their lives.
    And I was a piece of meat. Nothing but a vagina.
    "C'mon, Brandon. Seriously."
    "I am serious."
    "No you're not. You wouldn't have the balls."
    "Really? Is that so?" Brandon said.
    Video ended.
    Sickened, I stared at a blank screen.
    Brandon had it all planned. What's more another guy knew his plans.
    He KNEW.
    Queasiness ebbed. How long had I been sitting here gawking at the screen?
    Who cares?
    Shivering, I closed and laid the laptop on the next cushion. Troubled ramblings flooded my brain: Should I? Should I email Dad and try to get the hell away from Brandon?
    But—what the fuck's Dad's email? I forget. Is it [email protected]? His age is in there... somewhere.
    I got the laptop and flipped it open. After navigating to my email account, I clicked Compose Message .
    'Dad , I've been living with this guy named Brandon. He took me from the coffee shop 2 weeks ago.'
    I hesitated, unsure of what to write, mind swirling with confusion. Should I say Brandon took me against my will? Did he take me against my will or had I wanted him to? Couldn't remember or clear the fog from my head.
    I forgot to write my location, not that I knew where Brandon lived. I just knew he lived in a neighborhood near Houston.
    Like Dad always said: I was book smart but possessed no common sense. I should've memorized landmarks while Brandon drove me to his house. I certainly should've glanced at the number on his mail box—though it'd been too dark. 
    I typed, 'Will you come and pick me up? Me and Brandon got in a fight and I can't live here anymore. I forgot his physical address, so email me and maybe we'll figure it out together.'
    Brief pause.
    Fuck it. I typed my father's possible email addy, then hit Send . A message popped up: ' Your message could not be sent at the specified address. Please ensure the email is complete, correct and written in proper format without spaces.'
    "Fuck." I substituted 44 for 43 and jabbed Send . Another message followed: Your message could not be sent at the specified address.
    Frustrated as fuck, I slammed my fingers on the keyboard, switching, scrambling email words and hit Send .
    Same goddamn 'failed delivery' message! I gripped the sides of the screen, ready to smash it.
    Goddammit, what now? I