Not because it’s over—because the drug is pulling me under again, deeper this time. Wrapping me in a numb, painless fog. My mind starts to float, detaching from the weight of my body, from the room, from him.
I don’t want to feel this.
But I don’t want to feelnothing, either.
He’s so close I can smell him—cheap cologne, sweat and something sour that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
I know, with a sick certainty, that I’ll never forget the scent of the first man who rapes me.
A groan slips from my throat—part protest, part plea—but it’s quickly smothered by his hand.
“Shh, shh… take it like a good girl,” he whispers, his voice thick with mockery. His hands roam over me like I’m something he’s bought and paid for. Like he has the right.
I’m so numb I can barely feel him. My body is distant and disconnected, like it belongs to someone else. The mattress digs into my back, but even that feels far away. His breath is hot against my skin, but it barely registers.
I try to escape the only way I can—inside my mind.
I reach for a memory. Not a sexual one. A safe one.
Cameron’s laugh. The way he used to look at me like I was the only person in the world. A moment we shared at the dinner table together.
I miss you,I tell him in mind.Please help me.
He’s grunting now—low, guttural sounds that echo off the walls, mingling with the sickening rhythm of movement, skin slapping skin, and breath. It’s the only sound in the room.
And it’s haunting.
“Wanna swap?” the other man asks casually, like they’re trading seats at a poker table.
There’s a shift of weight. A pause. Then new hands. Rougher. Colder. I’m dragged to the edge of the mattress, my body folded in on itself, limbs bent like I’m nothing more than a thing to be positioned.
But I’m not a doll, I’m a human-fucking-being!
His grip bruises. His breath burns.
But I tell myself it’s not real.
It’s just a dream.
A nightmare I’ll wake from if I can just hold on.
“Stay still, whore!”
The slap comes fast—a sharp crack across my face that snaps my head sideways and stills my instinct to move. My skin stings, my ears ring, but I don’t cry out. I won’t give him that.
I try to speak, to curse him, to spit something back—but all that escapes is a broken sound. A groan. A ghost of the fight still flickering inside me.
There’s nothing kind in this place. No tenderness. No hesitation.
To them, we’re not people—we’re just bodies. Just holes to be used and discarded.
Playthings.
Replaceable.
Forgettable.
It goes on too long. Time stretches, until it eventually loses meaning all together. But there’s no pain—not really. The drugshave dulled everything, wrapped my nerves in cottonwool. I can feel the weight, the motion, but it’s distant. Like it’s happening to someone else.
