TRIGGER WARNING: Sexual assault.
APRIL
Jackson is silent. He doesn't speak.
His face blanches, expression devoid of emotion, as he lies next to me, wordless. He takes his hands off my naked body, the naked body I just gave to him, and freezes.
My jaw sets, stomach clenches. I bite my lower lip, eyes threatening tears, as I wait for him to say it back.
He has to say it back. I didn't put myself out there because I had doubts. I was sure he would say it; I was sure he felt the same.
He doesn't even open his mouth to try and say something. He doesn't look away or let his eyes wander the room, he stares directly into mine. Saying nothing. Letting the silence grip my neck and suffocate me, letting me wallow in my own stupidity.
Because that's what I am, I'm stupid. I'm stupid for saying it, I'm stupid for being here, I'm stupid for all of this. This must not have meant as much to him as it did to me, and he must be a great liar. I never saw this coming.
I thought we were in this for the long haul, but I guess he just wanted to fuck me. Just like every other guy. I really hadn't thought he was like them, but I suppose I was wrong.
All men are the same.
I can't believe I slept with him. Not only that, I can't believe how good it felt. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. It was cathartic, connecting, nearly spiritual. But now, it seems all of that was one-sided.
My nose burns as I start to cry, and I turn away to aggressively get out of bed and gather my clothes. I pick them up from the floor quickly, wiping my eyes as I go, and press my lips together. I won't break down in front of him. He doesn't get to see how he affected me.
I thought I could trust him. And he ripped the rug out from under me.
"April…" Jackson says, standing to pull his underwear on.
"Don't," I say, firmly.
I put on my bra and underwear and stand there before him, vibrating with rage and pain.
"I'm… I can't…" he stammers.
"What?" I snap.
"I'm sorry - it's not what you…"
"It's not what I think. Yeah, I know," I say, pulling my sweater over my head. My hair is a wreck.
"Not like that," he says. "Please…"
"Please, what?" I exclaim. "What do you want from me, Jackson? What more can I possibly do for you?"
He doesn't respond. He just stands there, taking the blows. That makes me angrier, if possible. I don't want a punching bag. I don't want to treat someone like that, because I know how it feels. I want an equal fight, but he won't give me one.
"You don't understand," he says.
"I get that now," I respond, stepping into my jeans with a certain degree of difficulty.
"No…" he trails off.
"I can't believe this," I say, pushing my ratty hair out of my face. "I've spent so long making sure this didn't happen. And then I just went and let it happen. You looked at me and… poof! All my scruples went out the window. How did you do that?"
He shakes his head. He won't look at me now.
I feel taken advantage of. I can never get tonight back, I can never get my virginity back, and I can never tuck away those feelings I felt and told him about. I badly want to, because if I've learned anything in life it's to never let your vulnerabilities show. I thought he had begun to teach me differently, but I must be a worse judge of character than I thought. Because all I feel right now is used.
"Did you ever even like me?" I ask, stomping out of his bedroom towards the main area of the apartment.
"April, don't say that," he says, voice weak and wavering. I don't bother with glancing back to look at him. I don't want to feel sympathy.
"Or did you just use me? Because you're the hot professor, you knew you could get me in bed. Is that all this was to you? A nice fuck? Were you grooming me? This whole time, were you grooming me?"
Tears stream down my face as I think back on the times my friends warned me, though they didn't know the first thing about our relationship. How had they seen, but I hadn't?
At the same time these rage-filled thoughts course through my head, guilt does too. How can I say all this to him? Everything I felt for Jackson was so pure and undiluted. And here I am, shouting the nastiest things I can think of. How did we get to this point? How could he hurt me so badly? How could he make me feel like such an idiot?
"It's not like that…" he says.
"Then what is it like?" I spit.
He doesn't respond. He stays a good distance away, reserved and unresponsive.
"Whatever," I say, then continue to pack my things. I can't stay here tonight. I won't be back again. I'm done being hurt. I've had enough.
When the last of my things are in my backpack, I shove my feet into my shoes and stare him down across the room.
"You hurt me," I say. "You led me on. You tricked me."
He blinks rapidly, staring at the carpet. For a fleeting moment, I feel awful for berating him. Then, I take it back. I won't apologize for my emotions anymore. I won't apologize for owning the way I feel. He hurt me. He deserves this.
Right? He deserves this?
"Don't you have anything to say?" I ask. "Or are you going to leave me hanging all night?"
His eyes have grown dark and remorseful, with that same heavy sadness laced inside. But still, he says nothing.
"I'm leaving," I say, hitching my bag over one shoulder after grabbing my coat.
"Wait," he says.
I turn around in a flash, hoping for a decent explanation, or maybe even the sentiment finally returned. But all he says is, "Let me drive you."
"No," I say, sternly. "I'm not taking anything from you anymore."
I rush out the door and down to the lobby, and call an Uber as soon as I'm there. I'm stubborn, but there's no way I'm taking the train at this time of night while I'm this upset. I might be stupid, but I'm not an idiot.
In the back seat of the car, heading towards the townhouse, I let my head hang and the tears flow freely. The driver doesn't try and talk to me - he's wearing headphones - and I'm glad for that. Right now, I'd be set off at the smallest thing, and he doesn't deserve my rage.
The one who I directed my rage at was the one who I meant it for, but now, heading away from him, I wonder if I acted belligerently. Like a child, unwilling to listen. But, at the same time, he did lead me on. He did lead me to believe he loved me, too, and that I wouldn't be left hanging if I said it.
I poured my heart out to him. I've never said 'I love you' to a man, romantically. I've said to Alex, but he's my best friend. I said it to my father, but I was forced. With Jackson, I thought it would be different. I thought it would be a step into the future, into a clearer mind. But he just set me back so far, made me regress, so I can't help but blame him. I can't help but be furious with him.
All I wanted was reciprocation. But if he doesn't feel the same, which he apparently doesn't, it wouldn't be right to say it back. I was so dead-set on the fact that his feelings did match mine, though. I have no idea how I read the situation so wrong.
When I get home, I'm angry again. I'm angry at him for letting me leave, I'm angry at his silence, and I'm angry at how good the sex was. I hate how much emotion it forced to the surface; I hate how he'll always have that part of me. And not just my body. He kept my heart, too.
I unlock the front door and slam it shut behind me. I kick my boots so hard against the wall that they bounce to the other side of the room. I throw my backpack with all my might across the hall and it skids to a stop in front of the downstairs bathroom. I grunt as I slam my coat to the ground, letting out an errant sob as I kick it.
I head upstairs and toss open my door, which makes it hit the wall with force.
"April…?" I hear, and turn around to see Amelia standing there rubbing her eyes. "What's going on? You okay?"
"April?" a voice sounds from downstairs: Addison. When I look, she's standing at the bottom of the steps looking up. "What's all the banging around for?"
I look between the two of them and rage boils up again. With my hand braced on the doorknob, I cry, "Love isn't real!" then slam my door in their faces.
I take off the clothes Jackson stripped me of only a couple hours before and throw them, and they land in a heap in the corner. No one knocks at my door, which is probably in their best interest. I don't know what I'm capable of right now; they'd probably just wind up being screamed at.
I put on a soft robe and lie down in bed with nothing underneath. I curl into myself and cover my face, willing myself to cry and scream and sob, but none of that happens. Instead, much like Jackson in the way I left him, I keep quiet.
I lose my breath. I uncover my face and stare ahead, at Liesel, my plant who's suffering because of the cold. I haven't been home much. Her leaves have wilted.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, reaching out to touch her. One of her petals crinkles beneath my finger and withers to the windowsill. I retract my hand.
I wish I never would've signed up for that stupid gender and sexuality class. I wish I would've never sat in the front row, read the books so intensely, caught Dr. Avery's eye. I should've kept to myself and done the bare minimum, only done the required work. All of this didn't need to happen.
Never experiencing the happiness he gave me would've been better than experiencing it and having it ripped away.
I had one scrap of dedication left to God, and I gave it to Jackson. I could've sworn that, as an apology for my horrible upbringing, God gifted me him. But now, I can't testify to that. That shred of dedication has been tossed to the wind.
As I roll onto my back, my robe comes open and I stare at the body that is no longer just mine. I gave it to him, handed myself completely over. He's been inside me, he's been clear through me. He saw me for what I was and I thought he loved me for it. I thought I saw it in his eyes, his smile, the gentle way he held me. How was all of that fake? How could I have fallen for it day after day?
I punch my mattress and make myself decent. I can't think about him anymore, or the knife dug deep into my chest. I would say he stabbed me in the back, but it was more than that. He looked me in the eyes when he killed me.
…
I wake up the next morning curled into a ball, sun shining through the window onto my face. I yawn and rub my eyes, happy for only a moment before remembering all that transpired last night.
I usually wake up to a text from Jackson, so I can't resist the urge to check. I'm used to seeing a 'good morning, beautiful' or a 'have a good day, princess,' but today I see neither of those things. I have a handful of Twitter notifications and likes on my latest Instagram picture, which is a selfie of me posing cute in the snow, bundled in winter gear. Jackson took the picture, but my followers don't know that.
I open our thread of messages and see that the last ones were exchanged last night after he got out of therapy. He told me he was going to be home soon, and I was thrilled over the fact that he made it sound like a place we shared. I loved that when he walked into the lobby, he attracted the attention of every woman sitting in vicinity, yet I was the one he walked to. The one he smiled at, wrapped his arms around, and kissed. I felt so privileged to be the one he actually saw.
I toss my phone to the end of the bed and scowl at the ceiling. My stomach growls angrily, so I get up and change into decent pajamas before traipsing downstairs with knotty hair and yesterday's makeup.
"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," Alex says out of the blue, which makes me jump.
"Jesus, you scared me," I say, holding my heart as I walk into the kitchen.
He follows me from the living room, where he assumably slept on the couch. He's always over at our house because he hates his roommates, and loves spending time around us. Though he won't admit the latter part in such plain terms.
"Sorry," he says. "Haven't seen you in forever."
"Yeah, I know," I say.
"Been too busy fucking the professor?" he says, eyebrows wiggling.
"Stop," I hiss, looking around for any signs of Addison and Amelia. "Shut up."
"You shut up," he counters, nudging past me while I reach up high for the cereal. "They're not awake yet. Dead to the world."
"You never know," I say, widening my eyes.
He rolls his in return. "Paranoid ass," he says. "Been smoking without me?"
"No," I say. "But I could stand to."
"Yeah?" he says. "I brought some. We can roll after breakfast, if you want."
"Sure," I say.
"And dude, let me make you eggs. Put the cereal away, you look skinny as shit. I'm gonna feed you like, a burger or something."
I look down at my body. "I'm the same as always," I say.
"Yeah, skinny as shit," he says, laughing.
Moments later, Addison walks into the kitchen looking as tired as I feel. She sits at the table and plunks her cheek into an open palm, watching Alex at the stove.
"Making enough for everyone?" she asks.
He tosses a look over his shoulder. "If you tip me good."
She scoffs. "My tip is letting you crash on our couch whenever you want," she says.
"Touche," he responds. "Fine."
Amelia wakes up before long, too, and we all sit at the table together eating scrambled eggs and toast. They taste surprisingly good, and it's a comfort to be eating warm food even though my mind isn't in a great place at the moment.
"Aw, look at our happy family," Amelia says.
"All that's missing is your shithead brother," Alex grumbles.
Amelia laughs. "You're right," she says. "Hey, speaking of Derek. April…"
I know what she's going to say, and I hate Alex for putting the thought in her mind. I wanted her to forget, because we haven't seen each other for a good chunk of time. My plan was going just fine before he brought Derek up.
"What were you up to over the weekend? And why did you lie to us?"
My brain goes haywire in attempts to think of a way to cover my ass. I refuse to tell them about Jackson, and I feel apologetic vibes coming from Alex in droves. He would never out me to them on purpose, and I know that. But still, he isn't helping.
"I, uh…" I stammer. "Sorry about that."
"We're not your parents," Addison says. "You don't have to make shit up."
"Yeah," I spit out, disliking the mention of my parents in passing. "Yeah, I know. It… I don't know. It was just easier to say that because… I don't know, I didn't want you guys to judge me." I'm buying time and I hope they can't tell. "I was with, um, I was with Owen. Owen Hunt."
His is the first name that popped into my head, and I feel gross even saying it. I couldn't think of someone else though, not anyone who isn't mutual friends with all of us. They barely know him, so he fit the bill as a good excuse.
"Oh, for real," Amelia says, eyebrows up. "Uh… that's interesting."
"Didn't think he was your type," Addison says.
Alex coughs brashly, and they shoot him a look. I ignore him.
"So, are you guys a thing now, or…?" Amelia asks.
I shrug.
"I don't wanna get into it," I mutter.
"Fair," she says. "Did you let my brother down easy, at least?"
I scrunch my forehead. "He broke it off with me," I say. "He didn't tell you that?"
She shakes her head. "He doesn't tell me anything."
"Yeah," I say. "We weren't a good fit. It's probably for the best."
"A likes older guys, anyway," Alex says.
I glare and sock his upper arm as hard as I can. "Shut the fuck up," I growl.
"Jesus, April," Addison says, laughing incredulously. "It was just a joke. Take a pill."
Amelia laughs, bemused. "Is Owen older, or something?"
"By a little," I grumble. "Can we just drop this now, please?"
"Fine, fine," Amelia says, palms up in surrender. "Don't want any tension at the breakfast table."
After a few minutes of silence, Addison says, "Hey, there's a party tonight at the Alpha Delta Phi house. I heard it's gonna be pretty fun. Who's coming with me?"
"I'll go," Amelia says.
"Can't," Alex replies. "Wish I could. But I have a term paper I haven't started and it's due tomorrow at midnight. And it's gonna suck ass."
I snort.
"How about you, A?" Addison asks. "Coming?"
I debate saying no, holing up in my room for days on end like last time. But then, I realize that got me nowhere. All it did was force me to feel sorry for myself, and drown in my own sorrow. I learned my lesson; I'm not going through that again.
I'm done letting Jackson control my emotions. I obviously didn't have any pull over his, so he gets no say over mine.
I'm fine. I'm over him. I'm moving on. Tonight, I'm going to have fun and get fucked up.
"Sure," I say. "What time?"
…
I spend a long time getting ready for the party. There's more pressure because it's the first one in a while that I'm attending in general, and it's also not being thrown at our house. Because of that fact, I feel the need to look better and have more fun. I'm determined to make tonight one I won't forget, while at the same time using it to erase the last twenty-four hours.
"Baby, come downstairs," Amelia calls. "We're pre-gaming in the living room."
I smile towards her voice. "Coming!" I say, and gather the outfit I just chose along with my makeup bag and hair stuff.
I take a couple shots with them while still in my sweatpants, and Alex joins in even though he has to stay behind. We gave him the very important job of guarding the house.
"You guys," he says, setting his shot glass down. "Take an Uber there and back. I'm not trying to drive your drunk asses to Taco Bell at 3 in the morning."
"You know you will anyway," I say. "And can you roll a joint for me, babe, pretty please?"
He scoffs. "So, when I got the plug, I'm 'babe,' huh," he grumbles.
I smile, feeling the tequila buzz through my veins already. "Uh-huh," I say.
After Alex rolls a joint, he takes me by the wrist and pulls me to the front porch, where we smoke when there's not a party going on.
"What's up with you?" he asks.
I take a deep inhale, closing my eyes as the smoke fills my lungs. "Nothing," I say, holding it.
"Liar," he says. "Something's going on."
"I'm fine," I say.
"Stop, dude," he says, seriously. "Stop. If something's wrong, just tell me."
I give him a look and shake my head, taking another drag. "It's nothing," I say.
He takes the joint and holds it out of my reach. "Tell me, Cheech, or you're not getting your weed back."
"Fuck you," I say lightly, then sigh. He takes a hit while holding it, and I scowl. "Fine. Whatever. It's Jackson."
"Thought so," he says.
"Well, it's whatever," I say.
"Sure, definitely seems like it," he says, sarcastically.
"Stop," I say. "I'm handling it. And give me that back."
I snatch it from him and inhale again, looking into the distance while holding the smoke.
"Don't go and do something stupid tonight," he says, seriously.
"I'm just gonna have fun," I say.
"Yeah, well…"
"I don't need you to parent me, Alex," I say. "I'm fine. Look at me. I'm not wallowing in my room like last time. You didn't want me to do that, and now what? You don't want me to go live my life, either? How would you like me to handle this?"
"Whoa, Jesus Christ," he says. "Get off my dick, A. God. I barely said shit, stop being so nasty."
I grumble an apology.
"Just… call if you need anything," he says, shooting me a wayward look. I know he's not my biggest fan at the moment, but I don't really care.
"'Kay," I say, and smoke the rest of the joint before smashing it with my foot and going back inside.
Once I'm in the house, Alex disappears and I'm left with Addison and Amelia in the living room.
"I'm wearing this, I don't know how good it is," Addison says, holding up skinny jeans and a cute shirt. "I don't care, I'm just gonna put it on. April, what are you wearing?"
"Hold on and you'll see," I say, and start stripping in front of them.
When I get my hoodie off, left in just my bra, both of them gasp at the same time.
"Holy shit," Amelia says, but sounds amused. "What the fuck did Owen do to you?"
"What?" I say. "What are you talking about?"
"All those goddamn hickeys!" Addison adds.
I look down, frazzled by the fact that they're seeing mine and Jackson's intimacy so blatantly. I hadn't meant to put it on display like this; I'd forgotten they were there. Red welts and bruises dot my ribcage, my stomach, and the skin above the waistband of my sweatpants.
"Oh," I say, covering myself with my arms.
"Jesus, Owen really went to town on you," Amelia says. "Or was that my brother?"
"No," I answer, vaguely. "I… uh… no. Hold on."
I turn around and take my bra off, because the shirt I'm wearing doesn't allow one. It's a black, strapless crop-top with a zipper up the middle of the sweetheart chest. I zip it up and turn back around, quickly putting on the skirt I paired with it, too. It's a multicolor, mod-pattern that falls to my mid-thigh.
"How's this?" I ask.
"Fuckin' sexy," Addie says. "God, you're so damn tiny."
I roll my eyes and smile, then slip on my black ankle boots. Sometimes I wear tights with this outfit, but not tonight.
"Hair and makeup time!" Amelia says, once we're all dressed.
I specialize in makeup, so I do mine first and follow up with theirs. I paint us dark and sexy, with dramatic smokey eyes. Addison does hair - curling her own and Amelia's, but straightening mine so it falls in one shiny sheet of red down my back.
Before we leave, I take one more shot for good measure while those two gather their bags.
"I'm ready!" I shout, wobbling to the front door, already unsteady on my heels. "Let's go get fucked up!"
They both laugh and open the door, bundled in coats.
"April, are you gonna grab your jacket?" Addison asks.
I roll my eyes hard and scoff, waving her off. "Are you kidding?" I say, stumbling out. It's begun to snow. "It's cold outside, but I'm still lookin' like a thottie 'cause a ho never gets cold!" I laugh, cackling at my impression of Cardi B. "Fuck a hypothermia!"
They both crack up along with me, which is what I wanted. On the way to the party, we sit in the back of an Uber and sing along - loudly and badly - to whatever's on the radio. The song the plays when we first get in is 'Sick Boy' by the Chainsmokers, and I know every word. The song that plays after that is 'Mine' by Bazzi, and my voice stops in my throat and I sit there, open-mouthed.
"You don't know this one, Baby A?" Addison says, cocking her head.
I close my lips, inundated with the memory of Jackson and me in his car as I told him about this song and how it reminds me of him. It still reminds me of him.
You so - fuckin' - precious - when you - smile.
"He is," I say out loud, then start crying theatrically, but genuinely. "He is so fucking precious when he smiles."
My two friends give each other an odd look. "What?" Amelia says.
I come to my senses quickly and blink away the tears, remembering the heavy makeup I have on.
"Sorry," I say, then clear my throat. "Can we change the station, please?" I ask the driver. "I don't like this song."
When we get to the party, the house is already booming and thumping with bass from inside. Every light is on, and from the windows it's easy to see how full of people it is.
"Looks lit," Addison says.
Goosebumps rise on my skin as we walk towards the door, and I wrap my arms around myself to warm myself up. It's better once we're inside, and my bare shoulders and arms don't feel the freezing snap of the winter wind anymore.
"Hey guys!" Mark says, who happens to be a member of this frat. "Glad you could make it!"
"Uh-huh!" Amelia shouts, then lowers her voice to speak to me. "Hey. I'm gonna go grab some drinks. You want something?"
"Fuck yeah," I say. "I'll come with you."
Between the two of us, we drink a lot of beer. I lose count of how many red Solo cups we down, and I smash the last one in my hand as the house continues to spin quicker and quicker.
"Shit, I'm drunk," I slur, holding onto her shoulders for support.
"April," she says, equally as gone. "You're so damn beautiful. You know that? You're so damn beautiful?"
"You're so nice, Amy," I say, smiling as best I can.
"I could just kiss you," she says, drawing out the 's' sounds. "You're so pretty. I just wanna kiss you."
"So, kiss me, bitch," I say, pulling myself closer. I have next to no scruples at this point. Logic has packed up and left my brain. Rationale has stopped trying. Alcohol has taken over everything.
"Everyone's watching," she stage-whispers, and I look around to see a good handful of eyes on us.
"So fucking what," I say, then take her face in my hands and plant a big, wet kiss on her lips.
"April and Amelia are making out!" someone shouts, but I'm not sure who.
She smiles against my mouth and keeps kissing me. When her tongue touches mine, I part my lips and let it fully inside - she tastes like I do: beer and bad decisions.
"Guys, guys, guys, guys, guys," Addie says, coming out of nowhere. "No, no, no."
She pulls me off Amelia which, on my unsteady legs, sends me flying and I eventually fall on my ass.
"Ow," I say, on the floor.
"Sorry, babe," she says, standing in front of Amelia. "But you don't wanna do that. Everyone's watching like you're some sideshow. Don't do that, it's not cute."
I throw my head back and groan dramatically. "But mom," I whine.
"Yeah, I've heard enough out of you," Addison says, pulling Amelia away.
I spend a few more minutes on the floor, contemplating what to do next, when a pair of legs appears next to me. I stare at the shoes for a while, studying the laces tied loosely on sneakers, then travel up the jeans, the shirt, the neck, the face. It's Owen Hunt.
"Need a hand?" he asks.
"Mmm, sure," I say, and raise my arm.
He helps me stand and I tilt side-to-side once I'm upright.
"You good?" he asks, chuckling.
I laugh in return. "I'm great," I say.
"Just saw you and Girl Shepherd all over each other," he says, nodding towards the space where we'd been standing.
"Oh, yeah…" I say. "She's my best friend."
"It was hot," he says. "You guys do that a lot?"
"Eh," I say, shrugging. "When I'm drunk. And I am drunk. I'm drunk off my ass."
"I see that," he says. "Are we celebrating something?"
I take a Solo cup from someone passing by and slug it. "Fuck men!" I shout. "To fucking men!" Then, I burst out laughing at myself. "Not like that. Well… yeah, kind of. That's not how I… oh my god, I am so drunk."
"Yes, you are," he says. "You wanna sit down?"
"Probably good," I say, and follow as he leads me to the couch.
We sit next to each other, thighs touching, with one of his arms around the back of my shoulders. He doesn't touch me, it only rests on the cushion, but the proximity is noticeable all the same. Even in my inebriated state. I don't ask him to move, though.
"I like your outfit," he says. "You look hot."
"Thanks," I say, looking down. My skirt has ridden up a bit as I'm sitting, so there's very little left to the imagination. I adjust my top as it comes to mind, and his eyes drift to my chest.
"Look at this little zipper," he says, eyes trained on it. Then, his hand moves. "What would happen if I just pulled it a bit, like this?"
He inches the zipper down by just a fraction.
"Hey!" I giggle, and smack him away. "Stop. I have nothing on under this."
"Even better," he says, leaning back to watch me.
"Don't be naughty," I say, blinking heavily.
"Or what?" he says.
"I don't know," I say, giggling.
He stares at my mouth without trying to hide it. I lick my lips, and he edges a little closer.
"I know you wanna kiss me," I say, smirking.
He takes that as a cue to move forward. In one swift motion, his lips are pressed roughly against mine, mouth open. I raise my eyebrows with surprise and try to match his movements, but he's going much faster than I can comprehend. I'm too drunk to keep up very well.
"Whoa, whoa," I say, pulling away with a grin. "Slow down."
He meets my eyes for a moment before going at me again. His lips are dry and his stubble is scratchy against my cheeks, chafing them as he kisses me hard. I concentrate on reciprocating, trying to do the best I can, and tip my head to the side when he goes for my neck.
His hands circle around my waist, thumbs digging into the front of my hip bones. He licks my throat before moving to my chin, then back up to my lips where he attacks me with his tongue yet again.
None of this feels good. In fact, I don't feel much of anything. But still, I let him do it because it's making him happy, and because I don't have much else going for me right now. I'm also too drunk to have any agency at all.
When his hands find my breasts, they squeeze - tight and desperate. I flinch from the pain, but it only propels him further.
"Ow, ow," I say. "Too rough."
He tips my head back and licks my neck again, this time slower.
"Let's go someplace quiet," he says, and I sit up. "God, you're so fuckin' hot."
I trail behind him all the way upstairs until we get to an unlocked bedroom. It's much calmer up here - the music doesn't reach at the same intensity, it sounds far away and untouchable. We must be the only people on the second floor, because suddenly I feel very alone with him.
"Come on," he says, leading me inside.
Once the door is shut behind us, he's all over me again. His hands, lips, teeth and tongue find every open inch of skin and try to brand it. He walks me backwards towards the bed until my knees buckle and I fall back onto it, then he overlaps my body with his own.
The skirt prevents me from spreading my legs to give him any room, but he doesn't seem to mind. All he's thinking about is kissing and touching me, and all I'm thinking about is when this will end. He's not a good kisser by any means, and his hands are too quick, too forceful.
"Owen," I say, breaking apart for a mere second. "Maybe we should slow down."
"You don't wanna slow down," he says. "You were kissing Girl Shepherd just like this a few minutes ago. Come on, April. Show me a good time. I know you can."
I furrow my eyebrows and try to continue. My lips grow sore as we kiss, and not in a good, sated way. In a hurtful kind of way, a pain I don't want to stomach.
"Owen," I say, and turn my face away.
But then, all he does is kiss my jaw and neck.
"Owen, can we maybe just stop and talk for a little while?" I say, wriggling beneath him. "Maybe we can just slow down?"
The room tilts on an axis and makes me dizzy. I squeeze my eyes shut in hopes to right it, but it doesn't work.
"You don't wanna talk," he murmurs, lips against my ear.
His hands find my breasts again and he grips them just as tightly. He only stays there for a moment before sliding lower to the hem of my skirt, and I quickly press my knees together.
"We should probably stop," I say, as he strokes my bare thighs.
"Why?" he says. "You're having a good time."
"No, I'm not," I insist.
"You're drunk," he says. "You said it yourself. So, you don't really know if you're having a good time or not. Let me show you… I can show you how good it can be."
"Owen, stop," I say, laughing uncomfortably as I try to sit up.
"You stop," he says, voice changing, growing more authoritative.
He shoves me down with one hand on my shoulder and pushes the other up my skirt. His fingers graze the crotch of my panties, the fabric over my core, but I clench my thighs in attempts to keep him away.
"Please, stop," I say, voice wavering.
"Shhh…" he says, yanking the front of my underwear a few inches down my thighs. "You're okay."
"Owen-" I say, but my voice breaks. He chuckles, unrelenting.
Swiveling his wrist, he roughly pushes two fingers inside me. Not slow, not gentle, not with any care shown to my protests. He shoves them in to the second knuckle, and my body freezes for a split second before I fly into hysterics.
"Stop it!" I shriek, frantically. "Get off me! Get off! Get the fuck off me right now!"
I flail, kicking my legs as best I can, and close my fist. With that closed fist, I punch him in the side of the head repeatedly, as hard as I can. It hurts my fingers and cracks my bones, but that pain I don't feel. All I know is I need him away from me, I need his fingers out of me, and violence is the only solution.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he says, yanking his hand out to cradle his head. "Shut your mouth, bitch. I barely touched you."
I can't form words. Now, while looking at him, I simply scream. And responding to my scream, the door flies open and Addison stands there, bewildered.
"April?" she says.
"Fucking cunt," Owen bellows, and storms away from the bed. "Tease."
I shudder in response to his loud, abrasive voice and brace myself to get hit. That's what comes after being scolded: getting hit.
But instead of laying a hand on me, he leaves. Addison takes a few steps forward, but before she reaches me, I stumble to my feet, still spinning, and totter towards the door.
"Honey, are you okay?" she says.
"I need my phone," I say, and push past her.
I miraculously find my purse downstairs, untouched. I'm not sure if Addison is following me, but I burst out of that house to stand on the porch, where it's snowing gently. In comparison to the ruckus inside, outside is unsettlingly tranquil. Like what happened in there never happened at all.
I dial with badly shaking fingers. They're trembling so badly I have to try three times before getting the contact right. And I need the right contact - because he's the only person I want, he's the one I need, he's my lifeline.
When I finally press the right buttons, the phone only rings once before Jackson answers.
"Hello?"
I take a big gulp of harsh, frigid winter air. When I plan the words to say, they catch in my throat and instead come out as violent, ear-shattering sobs.
"April?"
"I need you," I manage to say, somehow. "Please, come get me. Someone just tried to rape me."