Fuck the fucking O'Hare International Airport, and fuck Chicago, Alfred thought, though he often prided himself over being a linguistically clean man.

Alfred's mother had appendicitis, and because Alfred had not been home for a few months, he was expected to show up and be supportive. This wasn't Chicago's fault, and it wasn't O'Hare's fault either, but Alfred was still upset with them, however irrationally. The only lucky thing, and really this was more of an inconvenience given his situation, was that he was traveling domestically.

Alfred stood a ways away from the crowd and watched a man yell at a United agent. To the right a couple bursted into an extremely loud argument. Alfred enjoyed the O'Hare International Airport more and more every time he came here, if only because going 'home' was much worse.

The luggage did come, because good things never lasted.

...

Alfred's father was telling him how, politically, Alfred was wrong. "You're just so brainwashed," he said. "How do you still not get it?"

For the past several years, Alfred's father had tormented him with politics every time they crossed paths. "I'm just trying to help you. You'll get scammed thousands of dollars. Hell, you'll get scammed of your life savings if you can't see such easy shit," his father continued, as he often did. "So what do you think about what happened?"

Whether or not Alfred was already being scammed was debatable. "I'm having a great day, thanks," Alfred replied. He didn't want to talk about politics, nor had he ever (aside from this weird phase he'd went into at thirteen).

Alfred thumbed a copy of Kafka's Letter to His Father. Usually he longed for the forgiveness good ol' FK exhibited. At other times, usually while actually talking to his parents, he was blessed with righteous anger. How ironic, given that spite was damning.

"You never answer the question properly. You hate hearing the truth. All you ever read about is politics; surely you can form an opinion. Surely they already told you what to believe."

Alfred didn't respond. He didn't have to anymore.

Alfred's mother was alive and the surgery went well, which was great. Alfred wasn't too familiar with any medical terminology, in the slightest; the most he knew was that the appendix was known as ticking time bomb if anything at all, once useful and now abandoned by the change of the times. It did have a purpose in the present day, but that didn't change its reputation.

Still, Alfred sat like the good, obedient boy he was. His father was getting snacks from the vending machine downstairs, which wasn't at all necessary.

"How's New York City?" His mother asked.

"It's great. I love it there."

"It's not at all like Illinois, is it?"

"Maybe not our town."

"Do you think you'll come home soon? You know, you can't just live for location forever," his mother said.

"I don't know if I'm going to move back to Illinois."

"Oh. Well, that's okay. It's just... New York City is so dangerous. Move somewhere nice, like Denver at most. Or a little town. One day you're going to be too old to pay for location, Alfred. I don't want you to be unhappy."

"Yeah. I guess I will move one day. But not yet."

...

On the way home, his father continued to rant about politics. Alfred didn't respond, much to his father's chagrin.

Home was strangely distant, given how long Alfred had lived here. There were more pictures on the walls now, more dust on the furniture. The house was generally clean, but it was somewhat less put together than before. It was worn-out.

"Your mother's been really upset since you left," his father said. "I hope it was worth it, to leave so soon. Why did you even bother? Everything was perfect, Alfred, and then you fucked off to New York City."

Alfred wasn't prepared for such a conversation; he was never prepared for his father's words. Always, they were unwanted.

"But this was planned. You're not impulsive; you waited until you got your Associate's degree. Why didn't you wait until you got a Bachelor's? What made you so anxious to leave? You had every opportunity to get a good start, Alfred. All the opportunities that your mother and I never got. And you threw it away for fucking New York. I want to understand you, Alfred. Really, I do."

"I just wanted to have the same experience other kids have," Alfred said, which was only partly true.

"So you wanted to struggle?"

"Yes."

His father didn't accept this as an answer, but Alfred continued up the stairs anyway.

At the top of the stairs, there was a stain from the chemicals he'd used to try to clean the cat urine; he'd been fourteen, inexperienced with cleaning, and the stain was still left over from his inexperience. It made Alfred happy to see it now; he hated this house.

The first thing Alfred did was take a shower. He stared at the tub as he waited for the water to turn hot. The first time Alfred had tried to kill himself, he hadn't even gotten close. He hadn't panicked much about it, either; he had just laid in the shower, in the dark, and after an hour he was a little woozy but hadn't died. After that he'd patched himself up and went about his day. He hadn't been able to feel it, which made it easier to ignore, especially given that he was already in a dark, hot room. The second time, on the other hand...

Alfred turned off the lights once the water was hot, climbed into the shower, and tried not to think about it too much.

...

The sheets were clean, and Alfred's old room no longer smelled of ammonia. All Alfred really remembered from this room was sleeping on the floor, cold, and wondering if he was unlucky enough to eventually go blind from exposure. Thankfully he'd gotten off rather easily in terms of side effects, with only the frequent headaches and the occasional bout of illness.

Alfred couldn't sleep. This bed was very comfortable when it was clean, but the room felt so heavy. He wasn't strong enough to keep such weight from crushing him.

...

Twenty five minutes later Alfred was at a McDonald's. He'd climbed through the window and walked all the way, just as he'd done when he was little.

Alfred bought a sundae and fries and sat down.

"Yo, Alfred! What's up, man? It's been a minute, hasn't it?" The cashier's vapid stupor suddenly disappeared, cracking into a grin.

"Hey. Yeah, it sure has."

Alfred's old tormentor, James, beamed at him. "It's been a while. I've had some time to think. I'm really sorry about the sandwich. And everything else."

"Don't worry about it. We were kids." During their sophomore year of high school, James had knocked a sandwich out of Alfred's hand; this was the last action in a line of slight aggressions between them. They had gotten into a fight over this sandwich, and Alfred had promptly taken the blame. He hadn't wanted to explain to his parents how he'd gotten the sandwich, as he'd begged for it in the cafeteria. James left him alone after that.

"You work at this McDonald's now?" Alfred asked him.

"Yeah. I took your spot, actually. Where did you go after you left? You were here a while, yeah?"

"Four years. And I went to New York."

"Oh, cool. How's that going?"

"Very well."

James was the same age as him. All Alfred's old friends were in college, the military, or trade school, and it had only been a few months since he'd seen all of them. And yet so much separated him from Illinois; each day of freedom may as well have been a year. Alfred was much more comfortable now; he was almost a functioning individual again, but given his track record with Illinoisians, Alfred wasn't sure if they would like that.

Alfred finished his sundae and fries and went back home, unwilling to continue the conversation any further.

November 23, 2016

I was at my girlfriend's house about two hours ago. Everything was going great, you know, because we were playing Tetris and I'm a fucking god at Tetris.

So it was my turn at Tetris and she turns to me and asks do I want to have sex. And I say, "No, I think I'm good."

She says, "Come on. It'll be fun. It's just sex, not like it's really all that important."

"I would rather just play Tetris and hang out. Look, I'm doing pretty good right now." That sounds pretty lame and all, but doing well at Tetris was an easy few moments of time because I didn't have to look at her.

"What the hell is wrong with you? I mean, come on, what teenager doesn't want to have sex? Why wouldn't you want to? You never struck me as such a prude before."

And I, who spent my entire summer reading every article and social media post I could find on abuse, was well equipped to respond, "Coercion isn't gonna work. I said no."

"But you won't give me a reason."

"I just don't want to."

Finally she says what she means to say, which is, "I'm going to report your family if you don't have sex with me tonight."

I pause Tetris, which is really unfortunate because I was doing really great, and I look her in the eye. "Bullshit."

"I will. I'll fucking do it. That's what a responsible person would do, anyway." I don't say anything and puts her hand against my leg, and I tell her to get fucked. She immediately grabs her phone, dials the hotline, and shows her phone to me. "Well?" She asks.

In all the articles I read, they don't tell you what to say when you're being blackmailed or generally threatened. It's a rather subjective thing, I guess.

"Fine."

What do you do when people don't take 'no' for an answer? When you said everything you were supposed to say and it didn't work? What do you do when someone just doesn't care about how you feel in a situation like this?

So I took my time because I really didn't want to, and though I don't think God really cares about me I still prayed for a miracle to happen in which I didn't have to do this. I went really slow with "preparing", insisted on turning on the radio and muting Tetris, and then took a few seconds to hesitate before turning it off. I turned off the ceiling light and had a breath mint and turned on the lamp; I drank some water and complimented her, said she was very attractive even though I've never been more repulsed by another person before, not even myself. I couldn't force myself to move any faster, and she snapped at me to hurry up and I didn't, so she hit me instead. And I know I could have rightfully hit her back, but there was no actual choice. I wasn't even in my own fucking house, and I was being threatened with CPS investigations and if I hit her she would probably tell her parents and her parents would insist on meeting mine, and then what? My parents beat the shit out of me? I get charged with something?

I sort of just hovered next to her, since she was on the bed. Eventually she got impatient and stood, and she kept reaching to unzip my jacket and I couldn't make myself sit there and let her do it, so I sort of backed into a corner. And when I couldn't go away anymore I just thought, why am I doing this? Why am I going along with this? Why do I even want to stay with my family? And then I thought about Tetris, and how I really love Tetris and how I wish we were still just playing Tetris, or that I hadn't even gone at all, but why would I not leap at the chance to have dinner at my girlfriend's house? Dinner could only be a thawed hash brown or a piece of toast otherwise, right? I think now I'd rather starve than ever see her again, but you never think someone's going to assault you when a moment ago you were just playing Tetris. Anyway she got my jacket off and pulled me toward the bed, onto her.

Then I had to touch her, to try to take her blouse off because she insisted, but I was fumbling with the buttons. I was trembling so badly that I just couldn't do it. And I thought, how horrible. How disgusting. Out of all the shit that's happened, have I ever experienced anything worse? It was terrible that she knew I had no choice and was forcing me to do this, and that she knew she could hit me because I had no one to tell, and that she knew she was going to get away with this no matter what. That we both shared this information and she was taking advantage of the fact that I knew it, too, that I was helpless to anything she wanted to do, and that this person that I trusted was taking advantage of the fact that I had abusive parents, and of me. But mostly I thought about how I should've just went along initially, because if I had my head wouldn't be reeling from how she hit me, and why was this the one time in recent history that I hadn't thought of ways to minimize the damage? I knew that it was easier to give in than to keep dignity, but I guess I didn't learn my fucking lesson all the times my parents hit me. But at the very least it has to be my fault she hit me, because I should be used to this by now. I should know how to avoid this.How the fuck could I be so stupid— a fourteen year old and a seventeen year old, really? Why the hell would a seventeen year old ever want to date a fourteen year old without ill intent?

After seeing my failure with the buttons, she insisted I kiss her. I ignored her, which was a bad choice because in response she grabbed my hair and pulled me toward her. She had a pretty firm fistful of my hair and it really hurt for a minute until she loosened her grip, and then she was all over me, and I couldn't do anything about it.

I pulled away from her, thought of a second excuse, a better one. She asked why and was so forceful about it that I couldn't really raise my voice, so I just mumbled about a condom. In response she hit me again, and I decided I was going to kill myself if I got her pregnant and that was great and all. I guess she was getting impatient because a couple seconds after hitting me, she was on top of me and I was the one laying on the bed. I don't remember how she did it, but I assume it was fast. I didn't know what I was supposed to do except continue to unbutton her blouse, so I kept trying with that, but then she forced me to kiss her again and I started panicking. I'm of course an expert at self control, so I didn't dart up or anything, and I managed to not say anything either because I really don't want to go to foster care, or have to deal with not going to foster care after a few CPS investigations. I wanted her to stop, obviously, but she didn't care. I wasn't even second place in this situation; I was nothing at all, not to her. But when have I ever been anything to anybody?

She was still all over me and I still didn't want to touch her, so I stopped trying to unbutton her blouse and just put my hands at my sides, tried to melt into the sheets. But she slammed her palm against my head and urged me to continue.

At the exact moment I got the second button undone, her father knocked on the door, and I sat up and tried to get away from her. Her father said it was time for dinner, so we went and ate, and I wasn't hungry but that was what I came to her house for, right? During dinner she chatted a lot about tutoring. What a horrible lie, and one that I came up with just to be able to see her.

Never have I been more eager to return to my cat-piss soaked bed and my abusive parents. She told me, "If you tell anyone or break up with me, you know what'll happen." Because the threat was to call the police on my parents, if I told anyone she wouldn't be able to fulfill it. But she knows I wouldn't tell anyone anyway; I can't do anything that would lead to my parents getting notified. And anyway, if I did tell anyone, I wouldn't be able to include the part about my parents, so I would have to lie if I told anyone, and lying isn't a very good way to get somebody in legal trouble, even if she did try to assault me. Even if she does in the future. I'm fucking screwed.

There's not one goddamn rope in this entire fucking house. And I didn't even want to write this because I don't want to remember, but I tried to tell my mother about it and she just put her headphones on. I don't have anyone else to tell.

His father and he went to the hospital around noon to take his mother home. Apparently a few of the day nurses were on their lunch break, because a nurse called out, "Alfred!" and ran up to him.

"April," Alfred acknowledged. April threw her arms around him; Alfred flinched violently, but could not back away. His father just stared at him; Alfred told him to go on ahead, and he would get a ride home. And soon it was just April and Alfred and a ton of strangers in the hospital lobby.

"It's been so long," April continued. She seemed glad to see him. "We should totally catch up."

"I had no idea you wanted to become a nurse," Alfred said. Why the fuck had she wanted to become a nurse? Why hadn't he reported her, or called a hotline or something? What were the chances that she was hurting other people now?

"I decided not to go into journalism. What do you do? And where have you been? Nobody's seen you around; you just up and left." April grabbed his wrist.

"I moved away." Alfred stared down at his wrist, where she was touching him. Alfred had never, not once, wanted to see April ever again. And now she was touching him, again, and she wasn't threatening him or forcing him to do things he didn't want to do right now but Alfred still felt like he was being crushed, like all of the wind had been knocked out of him and quite like he would have to kill himself when he got home. "I got a political science degree and I moved away."

"Really? Where to?"

"New York City." Eight million people. Alfred was just one of eight million people, and when he went back to his apartment nobody would be able to find him.

"Wow! What are you doing that lets you live there?"

"Writing articles, and a bit of freelance writing on the side."

"You're kidding." April smacked his arm with the back of her hand rather playfully. "You're kidding! There's no way."

It occurred to Alfred that this was a normal conversation. This conversation could have happened between any two people, and right now they just looked normal. Two regular people. April was so normal. That wasn't fair.

"We should get a coffee, catch up," April suggested.

The third or fourth last thing Alfred would ever want to do with April was get coffee, but he felt, rather irrationally, that something bad would happen if he didn't. So he went.

...

Alfred was rather nervous. Except, he thought, nervousness wasn't the name of the pit in his stomach, or the strange hot, the painful warmth, that snaked its way across Alfred's chest. Hot flashes, pure mockery in a world where it was so easy to be cold. This was worse.

He continued walking, trailing slightly behind her. As they kept walking the feeling got worse, and more familiar; he had always felt so awful when he was going to see her, or when he thought of her at all. He tried to tell himself that it was okay, that nothing was going to happen because he was an adult now and he didn't want anything bad to happen. But as a child he hadn't had the choice, and that thought only made everything worse.

Alfred ordered a coffee; his voice came out so clear, so disconnected from how he felt. April ordered a sandwich and hot chocolate. They got their things and sat down.

April sat across from him. "Hey, you're not still caught up on what happened between us, are you? We were kids."

"I'm not caught up, and it's not what happened between us; it's what you did to me. I was a freshman. I was—," Alfred stopped. He always repeated this exact reasoning to himself— that it wasn't his fault, that "I was fourteen. You were able to legally consent. I couldn't." It hurt to say it now, to say it to another person. Alfred hadn't ever told anyone what had happened, after all; April was the only one that knew.

"Ah, come on. Loosen up, Alfred. It couldn't have been that bad. You must've enjoyed it; you orgasmed, didn't you? It's not like I raped you."

Alfred hated that she was right— not that he enjoyed it, but that she hadn't raped him, legally speaking. But more importantly he hated that April would dare to comment on him in such a graphic manner, that she wouldn't be as delicate as he was when talking about what happened. What an ugly justification for what she'd done. "I didn't enjoy it, but it wouldn't matter if I did. I was a fourteen year old, and you threatened me."

April appeared rather dejected at this. She unwrapped her sandwich, bit into it. Alfred hadn't touched his coffee yet; he didn't want to drink in front of her. He just felt so vulnerable again, as if everything he could possibly do was benefiting her in some way, and he didn't want that. "You know, it really hurts that you see me that way. I mean— I understand that you probably hate me, but you can't have possibly thought that I would actually follow through. Not many people would use someone's home life against them."

"So you wouldn't have called the hotline on me if I refused you, or if I broke up with you?" Alfred asked her.

"Of course not, Alfred."

As if Alfred could have known not to take such a threat seriously, especially on the days when she actually did enter the hotline's number.

They sat without speaking. Alfred made himself start on his coffee while it was still warm. He tried to think about other things, but mainly it circled back to how Alfred didn't want her to see him, any part of him, at all.

"You must be really smart, to make it in New York City as a writer. You should show me some of your articles. I bet they're awesome," April commented.

But Alfred didn't want to talk about his articles, or New York City, or anything new. A million questions bubbled in his throat; most weren't actually addressed to April, but those that were burned. One rose above the others: "How did you feel when you made me do those things?"

"Sorry, what?"

"How did you— how did you feel when you made me have sex with you? I always wondered. I want to understand why you made me do it. I want an explanation."

"Oh, I... I don't know. I guess I just wanted it, and I felt— I felt insecure, since you didn't seem to want me. So I pretended you did."

This definitely was not the answer Alfred had expected, and it was almost infuriating. Did he really not deserve a better answer than this? Was this really the best she could come up with? What was she not saying? Alfred saw red and did nothing to stop his anger; after years of feeling an extreme disconnect with his body, he had no idea that he could become so protective over it. All this human suffering, a whole lifetime of it, was fine to his abuser because Alfred had turned her down. Because to her, his choice hadn't mattered.

His whole body seemed to break in that moment. He let out a huge sigh, until there was no air left inside him, and resisted the urge to slump; still, Alfred felt like there was this huge weight pressing him into the ground. He thought— he couldn't think anything, he was fucking enraged. How could anyone do something like that to another person and then make excuses for it? Breathing was too hard; surely it would be less exhausting to suffocate, but he forced air into his lungs anyway. Suddenly they seemed too large for his ribs, and he wondered why the body had to react when hearing something shocking. How easy life should be if not so.

But more so, a different question lingered: how could anything ever explain why things like this happened? What answer did Alfred want— what answer could possibly justify all of this, could explain away all the trauma and the guilt and the past? Some manipulations could be seen as necessary, but no matter what, sexual assault was not one of them.

"I got angry when you didn't want me. I thought, boys always want sex— what's wrong with me? High school was really tough; I was getting bullied by other people in my grade. I'm sure you understand," April continued.

"What, you want me to empathize with you? I had a horrible year, too. Every year was horrible. Hell, you knew that and you took advantage of it. How do you live with what you did? You forced me, and I felt-," he paused, searched for the right words. He couldn't speak, so he took a sip of coffee instead. Once, it had tasted like humanity. Now it just seemed bitter.

"Well... How did you feel?" April prompted.

Alfred imagined himself popping like a blister, sending filthy impurity everywhere. "I-I didn't feel like it was sexual at all. I was repulsed by you. I wanted someone that cared about me, and that I could care about without feeling horrible, and you took advantage of that. You took advantage of the fact that I had no friends, no real family, nowhere to go and nobody to turn to. You took advantage of my fear of foster care. You took advantage of the fact that my family was incredibly abusive. And you have the fucking nerve to say that you only did it because you felt insecure? You listened and you knew exactly what to say to make me feel like there were no other options. I mean, come on. I always thought you had to have planned it, or something, that you had to have had it in mind the whole time, because it was so perfect. You took everything I told you, and you turned it against me. You knew I couldn't risk doubting your threats. You knew everything. Don't fucking say that I hurt you because I didn't want to have sex with you, that I made you insecure and that's why you did it. You went after a neglected fourteen year old. We didn't know each other before you started sitting with me. I thought you must've had this elaborate plan to sleep with me. I'm not convinced you didn't."

"That's ridiculous. I understand you're upset, Alfred, but I'm not a sexual predator. What other ways did I ruin your life, though? Pray tell."

Alfred was incredibly overwhelmed. Every emotion he could have possibly felt about the situation came out. How dare she mock him? Why couldn't she just listen? Why did Alfred come here at all? But he pressed forward. "Whenever it happened I got the sense that I wasn't a human being because of what was happening to me, because of how demeaning it was. After it I would always feel like I would never get better, that I was only ever going to be what other people did to me. I-I remember panicking sometimes, just not being able to breathe, and you wouldn't stop. And I remember feeling like I didn't matter at all, like the entire situation was just you and a body and I wasn't a part of it. All of it was just what you wanted, and in those moments that was all I was for. I felt like I couldn't escape it, like it defined me, or that I wasn't ever going to be anything more than that. Before that I'd always thought that when you chose the people you wanted in your life, things couldn't go wrong. I remember wondering if I was the problem, if so many people doing horrible things to me meant that I brought it on myself somehow. I felt that my entire life could be summarized by what you made me do, that I wasn't good for anything else, that I wasn't my own person anymore." It was pointless to say this, and Alfred knew that. He found it more pathetic than anything. But if nothing else he still had faith that she could understand, or that she would feel remorse for what she did.

Alfred paused, took a sip of his coffee. April didn't respond. He kept going: "For years I wondered how nobody ever saw what I was. What you did was all consuming. I didn't understand that people really couldn't tell that anything had happened to me, because I spent so much time thinking about it. If you had asked me to describe myself back then, honestly, I wouldn't have said 'smart' or 'realistic' or anything like that. I would have said 'traumatized'. It felt like all I was, and I felt like everyone else could see that."

"And what would you say now?"

Alfred thought on it for a moment; was his answer really all that different? Now he didn't think about April; he thought about everything else and pushed her completely out of his head, but it still had the same result. Some days were really good, regular days, and others he felt like he would never be equal to his peers, like he wasn't a person anymore. The good days never lasted long enough. "I would say I'm a survivalist."

April rolled her eyes. "And what else do you have to say? What else happened as a result of this?"

He wanted to speak. Really, he did. There was so much to say, namely how unfair everything was. How could she live with herself, with what she'd done, when he had tried to kill himself twice over it? Why didn't she feel guilty, and why did he feel guilty? Alfred hadn't even done anything wrong! Why did April take advantage of him, really? Why hadn't his mother listened? Why did so much random, everyday stuff have to remind him of what she'd done? Alfred couldn't speak; for once he knew exactly what he wanted to say, and it wouldn't come out.

Instead he pulled out the passage from November of 2016, copied it, and pasted it onto his notes app. He already knew what it said; on paper, the handwriting had been frantic and slanted. He had tried his best to get every emotion down and in doing so had significantly reduced the quality, and typing it had made no difference.

April was unimpressed. Alfred was aware that he'd sucked at writing as a fourteen year old, but he wanted her to understand. "Man, you really are one of those New York types. I'm sure you're a great writer these days; you're dramatic as all hell. I get that what I did to you was bad, and I am sorry. But get real— don't you think you're overreacting?"

"You threatened me into sex. You hit me whenever I didn't do exactly what you wanted while we were having sex. I'm not overreacting."

April sighed. "Yes, you are, because I didn't rape you. You're just being dramatic. You could have stopped me if you wanted to, but you didn't want to, did you? You didn't want it to stop."

"I didn't want what you did to me. And I-I tried so hard to make it stop."

"I wasn't saying you wanted sex. But I know you, and I knew you well then. You can't deny that. If you really did feel you weren't good for anything else, then you needed me. You love to suffer. It's validating, isn't it?"

But that wasn't true, of course it wasn't. Alfred had hated what was happening, and he'd tried to escape. Right? Or could he have done something, and he decided against it? Alfred couldn't remember anymore; he only had his writing to go off these days. "You threatened me. Of course I didn't want it," Alfred reiterated.

"And what did I threaten you with? Helping you get away from your abusive parents? I get that what I did was wrong, and I get that you're upset, Alfred, but I don't think you're being completely honest with yourself here. If you were, maybe you wouldn't be so traumatized. Do you ever take a step back to ask yourself why you're always the victim, all the time? You've always been like this. I can't believe that you really need your rapist to tell you that you're not just a victim. I mean, I didn't even rape you. I'm a woman, you're a man. You could have forced me off if you'd wanted to. I couldn't have pinned you down."

"I never said I was just a victim."

April scoffed at him. "As if you could think of a time where you've ever been anything else. I've met plenty of people like you. You're always going to be the victim, and nothing is ever going to change that."

With that April gave him fifteen in cash and left. Alfred finished his coffee, now cold, and prayed that he never had to see her again. He forgot to buy a coffee for his father.

...

Alfred was pretty sure Illinois had done away with their statute for certain sexual offenses, which meant he could still report it and have it mean something. And since he'd been three years too young to consent, maybe she wouldn't get only a slap on the wrist. But he hadn't read of any similar cases and he didn't know how to go about all of this, and going through the motions sounded exhausting.

What had happened wasn't Alfred's fault, and he didn't frequently entertain the idea that it was. He still tried to treat himself like a person, and a person wouldn't be at fault for the things done against their will. Alfred knew this, and he knew it wasn't his fault, but he was still ashamed over it— and he was ashamed over being ashamed because of how many articles he'd read telling him it wasn't his fault, because just by being ashamed he felt he was breaking his rule. He still didn't want anyone to know, although the only way he could afford to come back here again was if he got help from his parents. He didn't want to discuss it with anyone, and have more people in the world know about what had happened.

Alfred wished he could have run into someone nicer, like Rita, or almost any other Illinoisian he knew. Or better yet, nobody he knew at all. Not his first girlfriend, who he'd never actually broken up with. (When she finished high school, Alfred never saw her again; it was fine with him now, but at the time he had been rather paranoid.) But no, it had to be April.

Best not to think about it, right? Alfred couldn't just not think about it; he thought about the year she took from him at least once or twice a day, but never in words, just in pure panic or distress or shame. Alfred was a master at ignoring that which he couldn't change, or at least normalizing it in his mind. So he would do that now.

Alfred thought, instead, about the stuffed animals in this section of the store. At five-thirty in the evening he had decided he wanted one, and now he was at a store, browsing them. He finally decided on a blue dinosaur; it was simple, a uniform light blue, and he liked it very much. So he bought it and climbed back into the car, and why was he doing this?

Why was he buying a stuffed animal? Everything childish had become too connected to sex and trauma. When Alfred was a younger teenager, he'd spent much of his time trying to feel like a little kid again, one that had clean bedding and hadn't ever been forced to do anything inappropriate. He'd been safe as a child. So why was he buying a stuffed animal now, if he only thought of childish things as a grab for safety? Why was he mocking himself?

And why the fuck had he picked blue, of all colors? Green was obviously better.

Alfred put the dinosaur in the passenger seat of his father's old truck, started driving. He'd never been in the habit of naming stuffed animals, but he decided this one would be called 'Chicago'... if he could remember that, which he definitely wouldn't.

When he got back to his old room, he laid there with Chicago in his arms. It didn't feel right anymore. Alfred was used to sleeping while hugging a pillow, but this was strange to him. This felt bad, uncomfortable. Sleeping in this particular bed was uncomfortable, too. Everything here was horrible. Alfred had been such a nationalist as a child, but why had he ever loved Illinois? He had fantasized about it saving him, but in the end it couldn't. Not even Chicago could do that— both the stuffed animal and the city, all the people that had seen Alfred and looked the other way. This state wasn't the hero Alfred remembered it being. This state had failed him.

Chicago was, in the end, inanimate. For just a while Alfred had loved it, but now it only seemed to mock him: Save yourself. Save yourself.

Alfred loved the O'Hare International Airport; it was still better than home, which meant that every time he came here he had a moment to appreciate it. It was, perhaps, the only building in all of Illinois that he'd been to without getting hurt at least once. Even in grocery stores he'd tripped, or been shoved, or ran into things— particularly as a young child. The O'Hare International Airport, in all its dysfunctional glory, was safe, and safety meant everything.

Alfred was starting to get to the point where he took it for granted, where he was comfortable, but when he was younger general safety had meant much more to him.

But also, the O'Hare Airport meant that, half the time, he was staying in Illinois a bit longer. Did Alfred actually have any good memories in this state? How had he ever loved a place so full of suffering?

He still loved Illinois, but it was so much weight. Chicago and his own town were filled with pain, and other cities and towns weren't anything at all to him. The confines of his childhood were claustrophobic and spoiled everything. But still— how beautiful his native state was. How he had missed it, and how he would miss it.

Eventually Alfred managed to get onto his flight, a half-miracle. New York wasn't so heavy; New York was a place he could breathe in. New York was becoming home.

A/N: So I've decided that I'm going to share a fun fact or two about this story at the end of each chapter because I don't want to forget.

Here's the first one: Alfred is only from Illinois because of the piece bashing ORD in Chapter Two. Originally he was from Massachusetts, and Chapter Seven was called 'Fireworks en Masse'.

Double fun fact: references to the sexual assault in this story were rushed into the first few chapters, as I made a last-minute decision for this scene to replace a different scene that was a bit more personal. As a result I may have fucked up with portraying this particular issue, and if I did, please let me know.

I probably should have figured this out sooner, but the official update day is Monday now. I thought for sure I would be able to get back on track this week, but unfortunately I find my weekends much busier than when I started this story. A review would be appreciated; have an amazing day and stay safe.