He bends closer, his mouth grazing my skin.
I want to vomit.
I want to scream.
I want to die.
His fingers slide down again, over my thigh, tightening…
I jolt awake with a choked gasp, looking around in disorientation as it takes me a moment to come back to myself, to properly see that I am in my bedroom, in my dorm, my room steeped in darkness.
My chest heaves as I sit up, fists tangling in the sheets, trembling so violently I feel the mattress shudder beneath me, sweat clinging to my skin, my hair sticking to the back of my neck, and when I swallow, my mouth tastes like metal.
Even awake, my mind keeps sending flashes of the nightmare, until my stomach lurches without warning.
I barely make it to the bathroom before the nausea wins, dropping to my knees as I retch into the toilet, my entire body shaking.
It goes on and on for what feels like ages.
When I finally stop retching, I flush and sink onto the toilet lid, folding forward and pressing my face into my palms as my breathing comes uneven, my vision blurring at the edges.
When the shaking eases, I stand, turn on the shower and move to the sink, washing my face and brushing my teeth with trembling hands, trying to convince my body that I am no longer trapped inside that nightmare.
My sleeping shirt clings to my skin as I peel it off and step beneath the spray, standing there while steam fills the room and my breathing finally steadies.
Then I begin to scrub, again and again, until my skin burns and turns raw.
When I step out, I feel no calmer, only more tightly wound, and I don’t pause to think or pretend I want to stop myself, but stride straight to the drawer beneath the sink and pull out the blade.
The moment it touches my skin, something in me loosens, relief sliding through me in a way I hate and understand all too well.
Tainted.
Tainted.
Tainted.
I have to force myself to stop this time, the voices in my head too loud and insistent.
I clean the wounds carefully so they will not infect, then wrap myself in my robe, knotting the belt around my waist before slipping into my slippers.
Once in my bedroom, I don’t even glance at the bed.
I cannot.
The sheets feel contaminated, poisoned by the memory.
Everything does.
I will burn them.
I walk straight into the living room, turn on the television, and put on The Addams Family, one of my favourite shows, something comforting grasp at while my mind tears itself apart.
The soft glow fills the room.
My eyes land on the digital clock beside the screen, flashing 2:21 a.m., and I know there is no chance I am going back to sleep.
I will end up killing myself if I have to go through that again, so soon after.
