Oh God no.
I try to speak. Try to say no. Try to scream. But my voice comes out slurred. Broken. Barely a whisper.
"N-no... stop..."
The words dissolve into nothing.
He doesn't stop. He doesn't even pause. He just keeps moving. Keeps moaning. His breath hot andrancid against my ear.
I try to focus on his face, but my vision is blurry. Everything doubled. Distorted. I can make out the shape of him. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Stubble on his jaw. But the details won't come together.
My body is screaming at me. Trying to tell me something.
And that's when I feel it:
Burning.
Sharp, stinging pain on my neck. My shoulders. My arms.
I try to look down, but I can barely move my head. There are cuts all over me. Deep scratches like I've been clawed. Like someone dragged their nails down my skin again and again. Some of them are still bleeding. Thin trails of red running down my arms. Pooling in the hollow of my collarbone.
How did I get these?
I don't remember. I don't remember anything except waking up here. In this filthy room. With this man on top of me.
The drugs have stolen my memory. Stolen my ability to fight. Stolen everything except the pain. The terror. The horrible, crushing weight of him.
I try again to push him away. To move my arms. To do something. Anything.
But my body won't obey.
My arms lift maybe an inch before they fall back down. Useless. Weak.
I try to thrash. To buck him off. But my movements are sluggish. Uncoordinated. Like I'm moving underwater. Every attempt sends pain shooting through my body. My head pounds harder. My muscles scream in protest. My ribs ache like they've been kicked.
I'm crying now. Tears streaming down my face. Mixing with the sweat. The grime.
I'm whimpering. Begging him to stop. My voice cracking. Breaking.
"Please... please get off me... please..."
But he ignores me completely. He leans down, his mouth close to my ear, and whispers things thatmake my stomach turn. His voice is slurred. Aggressive. Thick with alcohol and something darker.
"You're so fucking tight," he groans.
"You like this, don't you? You fucking like it."
I don't.
I don't.
I want to scream at him. To tell him he's wrong. But I can't form the words. I can only cry. And shake. And pray for it to end.
He bites down hard on my shoulder, and I feel it—
The sharp sting. The pressure. The tearing of skin.
Blood wells up hot against my collarbone.
