So many words. So many words.
And now? Nothing.
Yes, yes, yes, 'cause I—I trusted you!
And now you’re gone.
The door opens without a knock.
I sit up fast.
I’m sick to my stomach.
Raymond walks in.
He sees my bra on the floor the same time I do. He picks it up and folds it between his fingers, neat as a napkin, then smooths the strap between his thumb and finger.
He sets it down on my dresser.
I stare at the TV.
The black screen.
My reflection.
He sits next to me on the edge of my bed and smooths the blanket beside me.
“They’ll always say what you want to hear if they think it’ll get them what they want.”
His voice is so gentle
I have to stop breathing to hear.
“Doesn’t make them bad,
“just... strategic.”
The bile is crawling up my throat.
I bite the inside of my cheek
to feel like I still got control of me.
“Next time,” he says, a lesson, “take what you want before they get the chance to take from you. You make them feel stupid.”
His hand slides up the inside of my thigh, massaging. As if what I did doesn’t make me disgusting.
And cold.
And hollow.
And ruined.
And then I’m on my feet,
across my bedroom,
reaching the toilet just before vomit hits the bowl.
