It drifts into my hair, fingers sliding through the strands.
Then there’s another hand.
Somewhere in the fog of my mind, I realize I’m no longer sitting upright.
I’m lying down.
Flat on my back.
The ceiling swims above me in blurry shades of blue as those hands move across me—exploring, claiming, taking.
My tears keep falling, silent and endless, soaking into the pillow beneath my head.
There’s a weight on top of me now. Heavy…crushing.
My T-shirt and underwear offer almost no protection. They’re thin barriers, easily pushed aside by hands that don’t hesitate.
Words are being spoken above me, but they don’t sound like language anymore.
They’re distant. Warped. Like something underwater.
“That’s it, baby.” The voice feels wrong.
“I’ll take care of you.” Wrong.
“He didn’t deserve you.” Each word drips with something twisted.
Something that makes my stomach lurch.
Pain sparks through me, sharp and biting.
My lips. My chest.
Not gentle.
Nothing about this is gentle.
Inside my mind, something is screaming.
Move.
Get up.
Fight.
But my body refuses to listen. My arms lie useless at my sides. My legs feel like they belong to someone else.
Even my voice betrays me.
I try to speak. To scream…
To say no.
But nothing comes out. Air trapped in my throat.
Then something touches me.
Somewhere sacred.