1There were little instances in which she did not lay miserably around her room. The shades were always drawn, the blinds closed, the door locked. Darkness prevailed night and day, lending her melancholy a partner in crime. Most days she huddled on her bed, covers secured around her body tightly, as if to prevent future harm. Weeks went by such as this. Everyone on the outside knew what kept her trapped here, and the original cause of her predicament had stopped calling upon her even prior to that. She simply refused to speak to him. She blamed him. He pushed her too far, she was too young, it was her first time...
Yet she knew that these were shaky accusations. She had wanted him nearly as badly as he wanted her. She had pushed him to the edge, he was too old, he really did know what he was doing...
It all started nearly a year ago. These memories and flashbacks consumed her waking moments, and in her sleep they were twisted into horrible nightmares that only enhanced her gloom. Friends and partners for so long, teacher and taught before that. Her first run ins with him were full of drunken fumbling in dark alleys. Too much pain surrounded her life daily to not give in to his attention. An attractive, older, experienced man that was willing to make those thoughts go away.
It didn't start failing her until he wanted more. Months passed of him being satisfied with mere sexual acts, but it was soon not enough. He would leave frustrated when she denied him, but never became demanding or vicious. He let her know of his disappointment, however, by not appearing for days on end.
Through all of this, they were able to stay secretive. Only after the moon decorated a black canvas did they meet, in his apartment or hers, to commit minor sins. Never too long, and words were never spoken. During the day, they did not glance at one another, did not share flirtatious or suspicious behavior. Simply got along with their lives. It was the perfect set up for both of them.
But. There was one night that would matter above the rest. One night when he was completely trashed from a mission gone wrong, and drunkenly searched for solace in her arms. He held her down as she fought against this, as she screamed no. He couldn't hear her dissent above his own desire and simply waited until she submitted. Then he took her, her first time, her only time.
She was ashamed to have enjoyed it. That which she had rejected for so long gave her the most comfort. He left, and she waited eagerly for his next visit so she could regain those feelings of completion and content. But he did not come. He knew he was wrong, he considered many methods of suicide after remembering his actions. He knew he could not see her again.
She began to weaken; her mornings were spent throwing up feebly into the toilet. Her period ceased and she knew the worst case scenario had occurred. The last outing she took included the purchase of a pregnancy test, of multiple pregnancy tests, which churned out positive results time after time.
An icy feeling of despair settled around her stomach, where that thing was apparently growing. She loathed herself, she loathed him, she loathed whatever was starting a life inside of her body. She felt helpless, friendless, completely and utterly alone. She enjoyed using her own misery to give her pain. It was a consequential sort of bitter joy she got from hurting herself by quarantining herself.
There was no turning back; the past could not be rewritten. This is real life.