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He lunges forward, a shriek leaving my mouth, as his spittle hits my cheek, “Shut it!” his stale beer breath wet against my ear. “Shut the fuck up,” his hand slams over my mouth, my body squirming against the door, his weight crushing me to the textured wood. “I’m gonna make this real nice for you if you just behave.”
Panic surges like a red hot poker up my spine, my hands going to his face, nails gouging his skin. He roars in my ear as I drag them down his face, his forearm batting at my hands,he grabs hold of one, slamming it down at my side, my other scratching into his eyes. The thudding of my head against the door at my back is drowned out by the thundering music downstairs as he slams me harder into it.
“Fuck!” he screams at me. “Shut the fuck up!” he fists my hair, slamming my head back into the door making me dizzy, ignoring my struggling hands slapping against his face, my feet kicking limply at his shins where his body pins mine. “Fine!” he grits his teeth, his hand over my mouth, fingers digging into my cheeks, crushing against my teeth, muffling my screams. “You want it the hard way, fucking fine.”
Chris releases my mouth, wrenching his head back away from my hands and tosses me onto the bed. My body bounces on the mattress, wind knocked out of me, not prepared to be thrown.
Before I can catch my breath, trying to roll onto my side, he’s there, pinning my arms at my sides, launching himself on top of me. Straddling me, his knees squeezing either side of my ribs, my arms between his legs and my sides, pain spiking through me, forcing a cry to wrench its way up my throat.
“Hold fucking still or you’ll have a needle snapped in your neck,” he hisses in my face, ducked over me, his lips against my own. “I couldn’t give a fuck if you wanna die that way or not, but I’m still gonna fuck you.”
I don’t stop struggling, despite what he says, but then his open palm connects with the side of my face, my temple, and I go limp. Momentarily stunned. Seeing the glint of a syringe held up in front of my eyes, I blink, a whimper catching in my throat, sickness swirling in my gut.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Please, I’ll do what you say, just-”
“Ohhhh,” he sniggers, “now you come with the begging,” he laughs then, sinister and raw, cutting me off, bending down sohis nose touches mine. “Tough shit, I’ve heard enough of your fucking noise. My dad warned me about you Foster women and your disobedience. Like mother like daughter.” And then he stabs me with the needle, a short, sharp prod in the side of my throat that has my mouth opening on a silent cry.
All at once, I can’t think, goosebumps are flying up over my skin, breaths panting through my nose, a wash of cold flares through me, just below the surface of my skin and I’m on fire and cold all swirling into one.
My head goes limp, Chris tosses the needle to the floor, lifting himself up and off of me, the mattress dipping by my feet. My chest feels heavy, my lips parted and although my mouth feels so, so dry, I can feel saliva leaking down the side of my face, pooling atop the bed covers.
I can’t lift my arms, flex my toes, and every touch feels cold as Chris’ hands grip my calves, thrusting my legs apart. I feel like I’m dead, unable to turn my head, to see, my eyes roll in the dark room, trying to see him, what he’s doing from the corner of my eye. And all I want is some light.
Monsters are always more terrifying under the cover of darkness.
The sob is locked inside my chest, but the tears stream free as his hands ruck up my short dress, his fingers tearing my underwear down my legs, exposing me to him. It’s hard to blink, my gaze locked on the light carpet, the needle right there, like a taunt. I want to shut my eyes, lift my arms, turn my head, but nothing works, nothing will move and I realise with a sudden shock like a bullet to the heart that I don’t want to be fun anymore.
I don’t want to be fun.
I don’t want to be anything anymore.
I just want this to end.
Everything.
I long for an uninterrupted silence, somewhere I can just be.
Alone. Happy. Quiet.
At peace.
The sound of Chris’ zipper is louder than the slow thudding of my heart even as my pulse seems to scream in my ears. His hands grip my waist as he climbs over me, his knees between mine, my limp legs splayed wide. Heat floods my cheeks, knowing he can see me, even in the darkness, with the ways my own eyes have adjusted to the absence of light, I’m sure he can see just fine.
He groans as he positions himself between my legs, and I can feel him, nudging at my dry entrance. My cheeks are wet, my lips trembling, even as nothing else is able to function. I stare at the needle, his thumbs coming to my sex, pulling apart my lips like he wants to see everything.
“So fucking dry,jesus,”he complains, shifting away from me, but it all seems so far away now, numbness a slow crawl through my veins.
Eyes unfocused, I feel him shove me higher up the bed, trying to position me and himself better. My head hangs off of the side of the mattress and I think this might be better. Unable to see.
It’s a dullness where he touches me now, only mental awareness causing me harm. I feel him nudging between my legs again, fingers on my inner thigh, trying to force his way inside of me. Harder, angrier. His grip on my hip is a weighted pressure, the shifting of his hips, the way the mattress moves beneath him as he shuffles his knees, all of it making me want to throw up.
Then I feel nothing.
There's panic.
It shows itself like red spiderwebs in the whites of her pretty blue eyes.
She speaks to me, but I hear nothing as my nails claw into the back of her hand splayed over my little chest. She pushes me back, with a finger to her red lips, the top one shaped like a little heart. She forces me to the back of the kitchen cupboard, pressure on my shoulder making me sit. My bottom hits the wood beneath me, knees drawn up to my chest, but I don't release her hand and she yanks it away, leaving me with bloody fingers on my chubby hands.
