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I’ve lost count of the men who’ve touched me. Their vile gazes still linger on my skin, their grunts and groans still sound in my ear and their musky, sweaty scents still make me nauseous. I don’t remember their faces but I can’t forget how sick they all made me.
Tears mingle with the water droplets cascading down my face. A deep ache goes through my heart, making me sob hard.
Will I ever feel clean again?
12
Seth
My anxiety rises as I gaze at my wristwatch.
Rory has been inside the bathroom for over an hour now. The sound of running water comes in through the partly open door but I’m starting to worry about her.
How can anyone stand under a shower for this long?
I glance at my wristwatch again. “What’s taking her so long?” I mutter as the minutes tick by.
It’s becoming impossible to stay calm without knowing whether she’s okay or not. Deciding I can’t wait any longer, I step toward the door.
“Rory?” I call out in a low, grim voice.
“What do you want?” Her voice is sharp and harsh.
Momentary relief spreads through me. At least, she’s okay enough to be snapping at me.
“You’ve been there for a while now,” I say. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just taking a shower,” she shouts over the sound of the running water. “What could possibly happen to me here?”
She might be shouting the words but the pain lacing them doesn’t go unnoticed by me. I can acutely sense her angst and desperation.
A deep instinct urges me to go to her.
“I’m coming in,” I announce loudly and walk through the door.
“Don’t be a fucking pervert!” she shouts. “Don’t you dare come in—”
Her curses fall short as she stares at me from the bathtub.
My breath rushes out of me as I take in the scene before me.
Rory is curled up against the side of the bathtub while water streams down on her. Her body jerks from the force of the sobs she’s desperately trying to subdue. Even from this distance, I can see the redness in her eyes.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she shouts, ducking under the edge of the bathtub. “Get the fuck out of here!”
She tries to make an angry face but fails. Her expression crumples, showing me the pain she’s going through.
Despite her cursing, I rush to her and kneel beside the bathtub.
Tendrils of her long dark hair curtain her face. There are long, red scratch marks all over her arms, neck, and breasts. They stand out vividly against the patchwork of purple and black bruises that mar her body.
“Don’t you have any manners?” she snaps, grabbing the curtain.
“You’ve bathed enough,” I say in a firm, grim tone. Leaning forward, I turn the knob and switch off the water.
“Hey! I’m not done yet!”
“You’re clean, Rory.”
