second time's the charm

This all that I remember from September 7th; the day of my second, and most vicious rape.

My bottom lip was cut. I bit down on it when they grabbed me from behind and one man covered my mouth with his calloused hand. He said these words: "We'll kill you if you scream." I remained motionless. "You understand? If you scream you're dead." I nodded my head silently. My arms were pinioned to my sides by one of the men's left arm wrapped tightly around me and my mouth was covered with his right.
He released his hand from my mouth.
I screamed. Rapidly. Abruptly.
He covered my mouth again. They kneed me in the back of my legs so that I would fall face down. "You don't get it, puta. I'll fuckin' kill you. I got a knife. I'll kill you." He released his grip on my mouth again and I fell, yelling, on the pavement. One man, I would later find out was called Juan, straddled me and kicked me in the side. I made noises, but they were nothing, they were soft footfalls. They urged the man on, they made him dominate. I scrambled on the pavement. I was wearing soft-soled sneakers, and every kick merely grazed him.
Somehow, I do not remember how, I made it back onto my feet. I remember biting him brutally, my teeth sharp razors, and tasting his blood, punching him, anything. But, it was useless. Three Mexicans, and one tiny girl? We all know the outcome of this match. One reached out and grabbed the tufts of my blonde hair. He yanked it hard and brought me down onto my knees in front of him. That was my first missed escape.
"Puta, you asked for it now," one man said, and heard myself begin to beg.
The man reached around to his back pocket to draw out a knife. I struggled still, my hair pulling out painfully from my skull as I tried to rip myself free from his grip.
Suddenly the darker man, Juan, shoved the back of my head, and I was on the ground on my stomach. He
sat on my back. He pounded my skull into the pavement. Once, Twice. I would have a concussion I knew. He cursed me in Spanish (Que te jodan!, Puta, Skonka.). He turned me around and sat on my chest. I was crying. I was begging. This is where he wrapped his hands around my neck and began to squeeze. For a second, I lost consciousness. When I came to, I knew I was staring up into the eyes of the man who could and would kill me.
At that moment I signed myself over to him. I was convinced that I would not live. I couldn't fight any longer. They were going to do what they wanted to me. That was it.
Everything slowed down. He stood up and began dragging me over the grass by my left forearm.
I twisted and half crawled, vainly attempting to keep up with him. Dimly, I could see the other men smiling and walking after us. A rush of fear ran through me. Would I be gang raped?
As I scrambled in the grass, the men circled me.
"Stand up," Juan said.
I did.
I was shivering uncontrollably. It wasn't cold out, but combined with the fear, with the exhaustion, made me shiver from head to toe.
"Take off your clothes."
"I have one-hundred dollars back home," I said.
"I don't want your money," he said, and they all laughed.
I looked at him. Into his eyes now, as if he was human, as if I could speak to him, plead my case.
"Please don't rape me," I said.
"Take off your clothes."
My hands were shaking and I couldn't control them. He pulled me forward by my belt loops until my body was pressed against his. He drew my head forward and our lips met. My lips were pursed tightly together. He tugged harder on my shorts, my body pressing up further against his. He grabbed my hair in his fist and balled it up. He drew my head back and stared at me, the others chortling.
"Please don't," I said. "Please."
"Shut up."
He kissed me again and this time, he managed to get his tongue into my mouth. By pleading, I had left myself open to this. He unzipped the khaki shorts I wore.
"Now take off your shirt."
I had a t-shirt on. I took that off. I wasn't wearing a bra. The men seemed entertained by this fact.
He reached out and grabbed my breasts in his hands. He plied them and squeezed them, twisting.
"Lie down."
I did. Shaking, I crawled over and lay face up against the warm, tickling grass. He pulled my underwear off me roughly and bundled them into his hand. He threw them away from me and I didn't dare look to see where they had gone. I watched him as he unzipped his pants and let them fall around his ankles.
I heard the laughter again. Yells and taunts in their native tongue.
As he worked himself against me, with more and more friction, I kept silent and still. He was hard enough and plunged himself inside me. The other two men had somehow managed to grip my arms, my breasts, keeping me pinned to the ground. He made noises and rammed it in. Rammed it and rammed it and the other men squeezed my breasts, and kissed me, and one chose to indulge himself by rubbing his groin against the side of my head.
And then it was over. He came and slumped into me. I lay under him. My heart beating wildly. My brain thinking of poetry, of language, of sleep, of B. Nothing erased this memory from my mind. They watched me stand on wobbly legs, dress, and wipe the blood from my eyes. They let me leave. They didn't kill me.

You don't know how much I wished they had. Two days later I attempted suicide, the bullet just barely missing my temple. I was sent to the psychiatric ward. And really, once suicide enters your mind, you and the reality surrounding you, is never the same.