IN THE DARK
It shouldn't have bothered her as much as it did, but it had left a little hollow space inside her all day. Rosa moves through the gym, switching off lights and powering down the treadmills, busying herself to try and push the thoughts out of her mind. She checks the changing rooms and reaches the front doors, emblazoned with the name of the gym, her gym, in mirror-image on the glass.
Rosa reaches up to slot the deadbolts into place. She's not tall and has to stretch her body to slip the bolts home, calves tensing under the tight activewear leggings as she goes up on tiptoes. With the premises secure, she relaxes against the door, forehead pressed against the glass, arms crossed defensively across her small breasts, hugging herself through the exercise vest. It shouldn't have hurt as much as this.
Rosa propels herself away from the doors towards the darkened spin cycle studio, grabbing a water bottle from the front desk on the way past and slipping her earbuds in. She passes the pictures of her and her husband, grinning with medals around their necks in Ironman contests, passes a floor-to-ceiling poster of herself in tight shorts and a sports bra, glowing, radiant, holding a pair of dumbbells out in front of her. She glances at it, at the smiling, confident face, the front-page of their social media account, the one with fifty thousand likes.
The spin studio is only lit by the emergency lighting at the door and is deathly quiet. Rosa goes to the cycle at the front, the one she was riding when she took the classes earlier today, the one in front of the mirrored wall facing the rows of empty cycles. She fumbles with her phone and kicks off her playlist, hears the thump of the music in her ears and begins to ride. She chooses a hard resistance programme, standing up in the saddle, looking back behind her and seeing the reflection of a late twenty-something woman with long dark hair in a loose ponytail, her bottom stretching and tensing as the muscles in her legs power her up the imaginary hill.
The other woman had looked very similar, and that had been what had driven the spike into her stomach. A few years younger, same height, with dark eyes like Rosa's and the same dark chocolate hair, a similar delicate face, standing at the door to the studio asking her for a few moments of her time before the class began. Rosa had engaged with her enthusiastically, always happy to see a new face in the class. But then the newcomer had asked some questions that had changed all that.
It had taken just one innocent question to bring her day crashing down: I'm trying to get back into shape after the baby. How much exercise should I do at the start?
Rosa clicks up the resistance, sweat beading on her back, seeping into the fabric of her tight grey exercise top. She can feel her body moving like a machine, the muscle groups contracting in a practiced, tightly orchestrated movement. Her friends have told her she has a figure to die for, and her husband pulls her close in unexpected moments to run his big, strong hands over her tight curves. But it's all an illusion, she has come to realise, hiding the broken bits underneath.
Her heart is pounding now, at the anaerobic threshold. She can feel the lactic acid building up, the burn in her legs as her muscles demand oxygen. Rosa fights for breath but still pushes harder, testing herself, looking for that endorphin rush to break her mood and erase those memories. She is a winner: she has the medals to prove it. There is absolutely nothing that she can't do once she puts her mind to it. It doesn't matter what the odds are, she will overcome them every time.
Her head drops between her bunched shoulders as she rides harder. She can see her picture-perfect body, worked so tirelessly over years. The music rises to a crescendo and she does a full minute as hard as she can go, feeling her body screaming at her, finally drowning out all thoughts.
The music ends, and she clicks the resistance down and leans back, legs idling now. She massages her tight thighs with her fingers, panting. Rosa shakes her head, loosening the taut tendons in her neck. She entwines her hands behind her and arches her back, stretching her arms out. It's a choreographed set of moves, pushing the lactic acid out of each set of straining muscles in turn. The adrenaline buzz enfolds her and finally her thoughts begin to drift.
Before she can react, a strap snakes around her forearms and a mighty tug forces her elbows together while dragging her backwards, toppling off the bike into a bear hug that pins her arms to her sides and squeezes the air out of her lungs. She is lifted off her feet and she lashes out violently with her legs but fails to connect with her assailant, feeling only air.
Rosa yells at the top of her voice. In answer, she is catapulted forwards and is dropped face first onto the mat. A body descends on her, a knee pressing heavily in the middle of her back while her fingers scrabble to rake her attacker's flesh.
"Careful," says a man's voice.
The tone is low and almost whispered. She yells again, emptying her lungs. Another strap is rammed between her teeth and she feels it tighten behind her head, gagging her. Rosa heaves mightily, but her assailant is too heavy, too powerful. She is fighting hard, even as the panic sets in, and a part of her is proud of that.
A large hand clamps around the back of her neck, pushing Rosa's gagged mouth into the matting, as the man shifts his weight down her body, pinning her by her neck and hips to the floor. She feels a hand tugging at her waist and she knows what's coming next. Rosa bucks wildly, but he has her trapped.
Relentlessly, the hand works the tight fabric of her leggings down, exposing her bottom first, and then her thighs. She feels the slap of a hand on her buttock.
"Be still, otherwise you won't enjoy this."
The leggings are pulled further down around her ankles, exposing her completely to him. Suddenly the weight is lifted, but before she can roll, she feels another strap pulled tight around her neck and she is tugged backwards until she is kneeling, back arched painfully.
"You have such a great body. I'm a huge fan."
Rosa grunts, head turning to try and glimpse the face of her attacker, but she feels the power of the man again, seizing her by the strap at her elbows, pulling her to her feet. His foot is planted on her leggings, still wrapped around her ankles, making it impossible for her to run. The strap around her neck is pulled down hard, forcing her to double over and she realises that he means to secure her in a precarious bent-over position.
Rosa heaves with her stomach churning, trying to straighten, but she feels the man's body weight on the strap, pulling her head further and further towards her ankles. She screams again, but it comes out as a muffled gasp. The strap in her mouth is leather, maybe a belt, and she bites hard into the unyielding surface as she watches rough hands weave the other end of her neck strap between her ankles. The man steps back. She can hear him breathing heavily at the exertion of keeping her under control.
"What a pretty sight. You know what comes next, right?"
Rosa closes her eyes, burning with humiliation and rage. All the strength exercises, all the body conditioning, and it hasn't made any difference: she's now bent over and helpless, opened up to whatever he wants to do to her. Worse, she feels the combination of adrenaline and shock forcing her body to betray her. A hand is laid on her exposed slit.
