Sometimes when I am walking down a street at night, I pass an unlit alley, and just for a second, I hope.
I hope that just as I pass, hands reach out from the darkness. One pressed against my face, palm hard against my mouth, fingers curled harshly under my chin to keep me from biting; the other clutching my hip in bruising grip as an iron band arm captures me and pulls me into the darkness.
I find myself shoved face first into the dirty wall of the alley. My cheek burns as it scrapes against the rough surface of the bricks. I feel his heat behind me. I struggle, legs kicking, but I am no match for him. He has me caged against his body.
He has my hands above my head now, both wrists held firm in one massive hand, my body still flush against the wall. I have never felt so small. His other hand appears, holding 2 zip ties, and my panic ratchets up a level. Using his broad body to hold me against the wall, he reaches up and secures my hands to a pipe above my head.