Free The Diary Of Pamela D. by greg monks Page B

that was nonsense. Where was she? Oh,
yes, she was putting on her wellies, which waited for her on a
rubber mat by the back door. Pamela then hitched up her dress on
one side with one hand and, carrying the wire egg basket in the
other, made her way to the chicken coop. She didn’t mind this chore
in the slightest. To get free-range eggs in their freshest possible
form caused a childlike wonder to stir within her, and she went
about the task dutifully, talking at the chickens as though they
were all familiar old friends-
    ‘Well, if it isn’t Miss Prissy Pants.’
    Startled, Pamela almost
dropped the basket. ‘ Albert ! What are you doing, lurking in
the dark back there! You almost gave me a heart-attack.’ Though she
had been startled, the moment seemed somehow rehearsed, as though
she had gone over and over it in her mind, until she had got it
just right.
    ‘I saw you coming,’ he said. ‘I came through
the back way from the barn.’
    ‘Oh,’ Pamela said, her
attention on making her collection. ‘Well, don’t do that. At least make
some noise so I know you’re there.’ She was suddenly uncomfortably
aware that he was standing very close behind her. Without warning,
he put his hands on her waist. Was that what happened? Yes, that’s how it
was.
    ‘Come on, Miss Prissy Pants. Let’s go into
the barn for a bit.’
    Afraid now, she pulled free
of him, continuing with her task, hoping he would simply give up
and leave. ‘Don’t touch me like that, Albert! I mean it! Go and do . . . whatever it
is that you do. The men are all sitting down having breakfast. Why
don’t you go join them?’
    ‘I’ll join them all right,’ he said, and
picked her up by the waist, making her cry out in alarm. ‘I’ll join
them after we have a little romp in the hay.’
    Unceremoniously, he hoisted
her onto his shoulder, causing her to drop the eggs- she watched
them, one by one, as they fell- perfect, pristine ovoids one
instant, scattered spilth and ruin the next. Terrified now, her
mouth dry, she realized that he was going to rape her unless she
did something. But he was horribly strong; there was nothing she
could do to break his grasp. And for some reason found that she
couldn’t scream for help; somewhere in the back of her mind, she
felt as though she somehow deserved what was happening to her.
    He carried her into the barn and flung her
onto her back on a fresh pile of straw, his gloating, totally
self-involved mien chilling; it was all she could do not to throw
up from fear.
    ‘You’ve no idea how I’ve been waiting for
this, you uppity little slut. Think you’re too good for the likes
of me, eh? Don’t want to get a little dirt on all that starched
linen?’ He was on her now, having undone his belt and pulled his
pants to his knees, before forcing his hands up her dress, grabbing
her undergarments. At that moment, sheer terror accomplished what
no amount of calm reason or calculated thought could. She pulled
away from him just enough to begin kicking. Somehow she found
herself away from him, her hand touching something smooth and hard.
It was the handle of a long, three-tined pitchfork. She picked it
up, got to her feet, and squared off with him.
    Laughing as he pulled up his
pants, still approaching, he said, ‘What you going to do
with that Miss
Prissy Pants? Poke me with it? Think a little city bitch like you
can take me?’
    Call it blind instinct and desperation, call
it what you will; she knew in that instant that her continued
existence depended on fighting, lashing out at him with every ounce
of strength she possessed. Viciously, she jabbed the tines into
Albert’s shins, making him back up in surprise. Every time he
turned away and exposed some unprotected part of himself, she
lunged, utterly without mercy.
    ‘Ow. OW! Stop, damn you! Agh! You little- Get
off, or I’ll-’
    ‘Or you’ll what ?’ Pamela shouted at
him, her features suffused with terror, and with unfamiliar
emotions that she could