“Hold her down. Everyone move aside. I want her to see this clearly.”
The crowd parted, and Emma and I locked eyes.
The Rottweiler was almost on him now, its barking deafening.
Every step he took looked like torture, like he was being flayed alive with every breath.
Mrs. Brown crouched down, grabbed my jaw roughly, and yanked open the top two buttons of my shirt.
Then she slapped me across the face, hard.
Smack!
Emma froze, horrified.
“Stop! Don’t hurt my mom!”
Mrs. Brown laughed cruelly and called out to him:
“Emma! If you don’t want Mommy to get hit again, run faster!”
“The faster you run, the fewer slaps she gets. Understand?”
“Yes! I’ll run! Just don’t hurt my mom!”
I watched as Emma clenched his teeth and took off again.
I shook my head violently, crying out:
“Emma, you’re going to hurt yourself!”
But I couldn’t tell him to slow down.
If he stopped, these people might do something even more monstrous.
Slaps kept raining down on my face, but I hardly felt them anymore.
Some of the men in the crowd took the opportunity to grope at me where I was pinned, laughing crudely.
I managed to slip a hand into my pocket, pressing down on the power button to call 911.