TW: Sexual Assault.

The light in the closet cuts through the silk of darkness.

The shadows drape the room—over the furniture, the walls, the floors—and hug the two figures on the small bed on the floor.

I am the smaller figure.

Blankets skew the mattress, ignored.

His breath is hot on my neck, His body pressed against mine. It's hot between our bodies, and I can feel His heart pounding against my chest.

He presses Himself closer, legs brushing against mine, intertwining. The darkness stirs, and I look up into His eyes, meeting dark, hollow black.

He smiles and glances down at my lips.

My body begins to shake, nerves thrumming through me. My arm around His body falters, and then His hand slides up the side of my waist. Big, strong, warm—thick fingers pressing into my flesh.

Bile rises in my throat. My heart kicks up—I can't feel my body.

"Have you ever... kissed someone before?" I breathed, the words shaking past my lips.

He runs His hand up and down my side, the warmth bleeding through His fingers like sludge. It infects my blood, my core.

When I asked that question... did it mean I said yes?

He leans closer, His head brushing against the pillow. He always looked like a demon, up close. Disgusting and distorted, with a face as malleable as grime.

"I kissed Elaine," he muttered softly, breath rank against my face. "But... that doesn't count."

He pulls me flush against Him, and my breath catches. Something screams in the back of my head, saying wrong, wrong, wrong.

I want to push Him away. I want Him to let me go. My body is shaking, and His hands are tighter, and bruisingly warm—like lava—

His head inches closer, and he gazed at me with those tar-black eyes.

No.

I do nothing but lay there as He kisses me.

His lips press against mine, chapped and dry. My heart collides in my chest, the voice in my head screaming.

This isn't right, it said. This isn't right.

I did nothing.

I didn't say yes.

But I didn't say no, either... did I?

He kisses me again. And again. Lips flush into mine, hard, pressing—and His hand—that godawful hand—curling around my waist, feeling me, so hot, too hot—I don't want this. Please, God—God? Are you there?

He pulls me closer, hips flush against mine.

I'm so small against him, my body like a rabbit curled into a wolf.

He kisses me again.

I feel weak. Helpless.

I can't do anything.

After a while, I pull away, gazing into his eyes. He leans forward, shadows across his face, but I bow my head before he can kiss me again.

His hand tightens around my waist, finger sliding under my shirt.

He doesn't kiss me anymore, but we still lie there, legs intertwined, bodies pressed so close. His heart pounds against mine, the beat thick.

I feel sick inside.

I was only thirteen.

I was only thirteen.

I was only thirteen.

* * *

Three years later, same bed, different night.

I am only sixteen.

We're older now. More adept.

I'd only recently healed from what he'd done to me. I'd found myself—found my identity. I knew I was aromantic—knew I preferred women—so—

Why was I here?

How did this happen?

He straddled me, smirking down at me with that grimy face of his. He was so heavy—body like a shadow over mine.

I am still so small.

His weight presses me flush into my own bed, my own bed, and I can't do anything but stare up at him. My legs are parted around His thick frame, limp and shaking.

His hands are still hot like sludge.

He grinds His hips into mine, and that voice comes back in my head.

Wrong, it says, sobbing this time, knowing I could have avoided this. Wrong... Wrong.

My core shatters, and I wrap my arms around His neck, pulling him closer. Tears spring to my eyes just as he bows his head, lips brushing against my neck.

Wrong, I sob to myself. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

His lips brush against my pulse, nipping and sucking, soft and wet, and it feels good.

Wrong.

He litters my neck with hickies, breath ghosting over my collarbone.

I love collarbones.

They used to be my favorite feature of the human body.

He kisses, and kisses, and kisses, abusing the favorite parts of myself, abusing my identity, my life, the happiness I had worked so hard to gain after all these years.

I am only sixteen.

His hips roll a steady rhythm into mine, his arms caging me in, trapping me under him. The LEDS above are red, dim, dark and swirling with shadows, and it only fuels Him.

I pull His head to the side and kiss His neck, trying to hide my face.

Why?

His warm hand slides under my shirt, feeling my skin. Disgust coils through me.

Why aren't I doing anything?

His lips brush against my jaw, his breaths sliding against my skin, and kisses me.

I kiss back.

Why am I going along with this?

His lips slide against mine, wet and rough. I can taste his spit—can feel it on my lips, on my chin.

I want to vomit.

Wrong, the voice says in my head, but now it is weary. This is...

My brows curl.

Is it wrong?

My heart aches.

Because—

The voice in my head tore, conflicted.

If it feels good, then— His hand slid higher, feeling my skin, and I wanted to cry. —why should you feel violated?

He stole my first kiss from me.

He stole the beauty in what I once saw in intimacy.

He stole the love I've wanted to feel.

He stole the humanity inside me.

He stole the life inside me.

He stole.

He stole.

He stole.

Another year, another night, and this time I am alone in my bed, sobbing, clutching onto a body I once loved to call mine.

Do you even realize... what you've done to me?

I live now in a broken shell, that once could have prospered in purity.

* * *

I know this isn't a ship, but I'm still haunted by memories of what happened, and I thought writing might help me heal through them. Posting this is more for myself, so if you've come this far, thank you for reading, and I hoped I haven't put a damper on your mood <3

See you tomorrow on Strangulate! :)

Love, Vic xoxo