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I feel a heavy weight on me. It’s him. The man with the blurred face: my boyfriend. Why is he doing this? We’ve been together for two years, having met at a nightclub. My best friend dates his. We go out on double dates all the time. He said he loved me and understood why I wanted to wait to have sex with him. I’m establishing my career. I’m just finishing my training to be a lawyer and have been working for a prestigious New York firm where we live. Well, where I live. He travels a lot for his job with the FBI.
Why does he feel so heavy on me?
Another thump to my jaw, and I hear the bone break this time. It snaps clean with a surreal sound, echoing through my ears. I can’t move it, so I can’t scream at him to stop.
I don’t understand.
My skirt is bundled up around my waist. When did that happen? Fabric rips, and my panties are torn from my body.
“I’m going to finally take what you’ve been keeping from me all this time. Two fucking years of wasted gifts and energy. I’ve even fucked my best mate’s girlfriend but not my own. How sick is that? I’m just grateful he likes to share.”
He’s had sex with my best friend? He’s cheated on me? She’s slept with the man whom she knew I was falling in love with. My mind reels from this revelation.
Something pushes inside me. I know it’s not a cock because I look down and can see his groin still encased in his jeans. His hand is there at my virgin entrance, though. His finger is inside my body, he stretches another one out and pushes it inside. I’m dry; and it feels like he’s tearing me apart. Two more fingers go in, and I want to scream, but my broken jaw prevents me from doing anything other than whimper and drool crimson blood down my front.
“Damn you’re going to be so tight. At least you weren't lying about being a fucking virgin. I’m going to come like a little school boy in a few thrusts.”
He withdraws his fingers and reaches for his jeans. No, please, no, I’m internally begging. Please. Why is he doing this? What did I do wrong? I thought he wanted to wait just like me? He unzips his jeans and brings out his cock. I’ve seen one before. I’m not a total prude. I’ve got a vibrator in the drawer next to my bed, and I get sexually frustrated on occasion just like everyone else. But to see his, when he’s angry and behaving like a man I don’t recognize, sends a shiver through my body.
“It’s big, isn’t it?” he says cockily. “Shame I don’t feel like making you ready for it.”
I wish I could see his face, but I never do. I want to remember what he looks like.
“Time to take what’s mine.”
He positions himself at my entrance and without warning or ceremony thrusts inside me in one agonizing piston. He takes my virginity, the greatest gift I can bestow, without my permission, and my head spins with the harrowing pain. I must be losing my mind. This must be a dream. He can’t really be doing this to me. He loves me. The guttural grunts as he bucks his hips like a wild animal bring bile to my throat. No, I can’t vomit with my jaw broken; I could choke. Then, suddenly I don’t care, and death seems like a peaceful alternative to this.
“Damn, this pussy is so fucking tight. Shame it’s attached to a cunt like you.”
He brings his fist back and hits me again.
I sit upright in the bed gasping for air. I’m choking. My jaw is broken. He’s here. I struggle feverishly to get air into my lungs, but I can’t. I bring my hands up to my face to check my jaw. It’s not broken. It’s healed. I still have issues with it on occasion, but it’s not broken. That means he’s not here. I pull my hands away from my mouth, and they’re covered in blood. Blood! Where’s it coming from? Why am I bleeding?
I start my grounding routine again. Five things I can see.
“Bed, table, wardrobe, rug, blood…. Blood.” I break down sobbing when I realize I’ve bitten my tongue, and that’s where my life-force is coming from.
“Why me?” I cry. “Why? I just want to be normal.”
Chapter Two
“This is just a moment. It’ll pass.”
My head rests in my hands as I look out from the sash windows of my house. I like to people watch from the safety of my home. Today was the best day I’ve had in a long time. I managed to get to the shop and buy some fresh food. It’s nice, for a change, not to live out of a packet or something I’ve taken out of the freezer. I tried online food shopping before but couldn’t bring myself to open the door to the delivery driver, because he was a man. It could have been the man who raped me. I don’t remember his face or even his name. My mind has completely wiped both from my memory. I didn’t report what happened to me. I told people I was attacked but not raped, and I didn’t tell them the fact that it was my boyfriend who was the perpetrator. I left New York as soon as I was able to travel and found my way to Cambria. The story around me died, and I became a different person, Jasmine Walker, the recluse.
The timer goes off. I push to my feet and skip, bare footed, across the wooden floor to the kitchen. Opening the oven door, I pull out the fresh lemon cake I’ve made, and placing it on the cooling rack, I use my hands to waft the fresh citrus scent into my nose. I love lemon cake; it’s always been my favorite. I’ll need to pour the lemon syrup over the top, and then I’ll devour the whole thing over the next few days. Some extra calories won’t harm me. I don’t usually manage to eat the recommended daily allowance anyway. I go over to the stove and turn the gas on under the saucepan, containing the lemon juice and sugar I prepared earlier. I grab my wooden spoon out of a drawer and stir the mixture until all the sugar has dissolved and it’s bubbling. I turn the heat off, checking it three times just to make absolutely sure it’s no longer on. I pick up the saucepan and pour the contents over the cake. Placing the empty pot in the sink, I take another inhalation of the lemon essence.
“Delicious.” I smile proudly to myself but freeze when I hear a sound at the front door. A thud. My heart beat immediately accelerates, and I grip tightly to the kitchen work surface.
“It’s nothing, I reassure myself. I’m sure it’s nothing. Oven, fridge, freezer, sink, tin, wall, ceiling, window, floor, fan, music, water, lemon, sugar, cake.” I ground myself in the usual manner and then, pushing off the island that I’m working at, I pad across the floor to the hallway.
“Who is it?” I shout at the front door.
There’s no answer.
I stand up on tiptoes and look through the peephole. There’s no one there.
Tentatively, I slide back the three locks I have on the front door and open it. There, lying on the porch, is a newspaper: the local, weekly one. I puff my cheeks out and relax. The sound must have been the newspaper hitting the door. I pick it up and shut the door, checking the locks three times to ensure they’re correctly fastened. The cake will still be too hot to eat, so I go back into the living room and place the newspaper on the coffee table. I resume my seat at the window and set about people watching, once again.
