Non-consensual sex warning.
He was at her again. With hands on his head, she struggled to push him away, but he tore her toward him by her ankles, spreading her legs. His face was in her crotch, licking at her pants. He ripped them open, tongue pushing through the tearing fabric, frantically attempting to get to her pussy.
"Stop!" She screamed, tears threatening her eyes. "Stop it!"
But he didn't listen, just lifted her legs so she would have to fall back onto her elbows. She struggled, hitting the bed frame behind her, his face never too far from between her legs. Fingertips dug into the skin of her inner thighs through shredded fabric. His tongue worshiped her pussy, mouth engulfing its entirety.
She hated it. She hated that he knew how to please her. Hated that a part of her liked the way it felt. Hated the wet saliva that coated her, mixing with her juices and trailing down her ass. He rubbed his stubble into her cunt, the prickling friction making her cry out in a defeated moan and she grasped his hoodie. She was losing the fight against him.
It wasn't the first time since she arrived that he had his way with her, regardless of what she said or did. Her tired body ached from his repeated, rough sex. He didn't cum most of the time, just fucked her until he went flaccid or lost his energy, then he'd leave to do whatever the hell, and come back later to repeat the cycle. She'd begged him to stop, used their old safe words and gestures, but nothing deterred him. Not her pussy going dry, not her pleading, not even when he did cum did he stop. He would simply clean himself up and start on her again a little while after.
Now he was making sure to take away her bodily autonomy. Even though she didn't want to cum, he would make her. He found his rhythm, lifting her legs into the air as he worked her. Her knees fell limply across his shoulders, cunt throbbing to her forced stimulation. The boy still knew what to do.
"No," she moaned, balling her fists in the covers, eyes shut tight. "I don't want this. Please…"
But he only worked her harder, taking her quickly to an unwelcome peak. He knew the sounds of her orgasm, knew her body language well — head thrown back, mouth agape with a strained moan, legs clutching him. Her body betrayed her and bucked against his face and mouth, riding out her orgasm.
When she went limp, Lucas pulled away, and wiped his wet face on his sleeve. Her legs fell onto the bed, leaving her pulsating body to recover.
He'd proved his point to her — that she belonged to him and no one else — then kissed her lips and left. She panted on the bed, feeling her traitorous orgasm. The afterglow filled her with indescribable shame, but she had no strength to do anything about it. She stayed there, feeling naked despite that she still had her shirt and most of her pants on. Not that her clothes mattered. He was just going to take them off or rip them again. Holes frayed her pants.
Lucas had been gone for a while, so she seized the opportunity to have another shower. Every shower went much the same: she'd sit under the hot water as if it would suck her down the drain with it. She wished it could. She'd seen another mold creature lurking in the halls just outside of Lucas's room and it chilled her. It looked unbelievable, but it had been there, growling and groaning, sometimes dripping mold. Her stomach churned at the memories of the strong mildew, stomach acid, and rotten fruit-like scent it emanated.
The hot water was running out quickly. Too quickly. She would've stayed under the scorching stream all day if she could in hopes it would soothe her pain-filled pussy, throat, and asshole — none of her holes were off limits to him. She sighed and turned the water off, squeezing the excess out of her hair. She dripped along the ground as she limped back to his bedroom. Pain screamed in her groin and legs and insides. The cold air soothed her skin, marked by his violent bites and scratches, neck marred in several spots by their necklace chain and all the times he tightened it. She didn't bother trying to towel off and collapsed face-first into his bed.
A headache came on, and with it, slight dizziness. Maybe she was hungry. He'd not given her anything to eat (and next time he comes in, she'd be happy to remind him that his dick doesn't count), but she wasn't so sure her ails had to do with hunger. She had a bad feeling that it had something to do with that little girl and her black vomit — probably the same girl from their text messages almost a year ago. She would've checked her phone but she wasn't sure where it was anymore.
Footsteps that sounded like Lucas's gait entered the room, but she had no energy to look. The footfalls walked behind her and around to the other side of the bed, where the mattress depressed due to his weight. Something tapped on the nightstand.
"Wakey, wakey," he said excitedly, one hand on her shoulder in an unwelcome touch. "Look what I got fer you."
She turned her head, face once in the covers now looking up at him. He had a plate in his hand with a sandwich, an apple, and potato chips.
"Hungry, right? Sorry 'bout that, got a little — hmm — carried away." He put the plate down in front of her. Then he spoke in a slightly singsong voice, "And gotchu some white grape juice, toooo."
That was her favorite back in the day. She closed her eyes, a small smile briefly creasing her lips as, for a moment in her well-trained, deluded mind, she found herself back with the old Lucas, who always remembered her favorite drink, her favorite food, and color, and season. The old Lucas, who treated her well and loved her. But her wet, chilled body was a reminder that all of that had left.
On weak, trembling arms, she pushed herself up and rolled onto her side, giving her hand the freedom to access the food: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, looking oddly normal, as did the rest. She ate and, when she motioned for it, he would hand her the juice, then hold it until she was ready again. His eyes leered at her, she could feel it. She refused to look directly at him.
After she ate, he sat her up and dressed her. She wasn't sure why he clothed her, but there was a sense of security and comfort in being covered again. Lucas took off his hoodie and slipped it on her, zipping her up in the warmth.
"All right, Pers, I need you t' listen n' listen real good."
Her languid, heavy eyes and face turned in his direction.
"I know y'all noticed how diff'rent it is 'round here—"
What an understatement.
"—n' I'll explain it all to ya soon. Buuuut for now, ya just need t' stay down here. The rest a' the family wants ta see ya but that ain't happ'nin' yet, and ya sure as hell can't leave. Not right now, anyway."
She looked away from him, at the mirror that was still on his wall in front of the bed, seeing her face and messy hair. In the mirror, she saw him frown, then lean into her. His pale arms held her close.
"Aw, Pers, don' look so sad. Everythin's gonna be all right. Trust me."
At one point, she did. She'd trusted him with everything. But all of that changed over the course of the year, from his silence to what she came back home to. It was insanity. She'd been there for hours, possibly days, and had more questions than answers. It drove her mad. Mad like Lucas. Mad like the mold monsters, the little girl, even Jack — the rest of the family had surely met the same fate.
"I want to know now, Lucas," she said, nudging him off, voice quiet but demanding. She looked into him with her drooping eyes. "Tell me what's going on."
He sighed. "It's a long story."
"Got nothing but time."
With very little hesitation, he told her where it all went wrong. October 10th in the late afternoon, starting from his last text message to her, 'Don't worry, Pers. Let's just think about next summer'; after that, everything went to hell. The puking little girl was called Eveline and she started all their troubles. She brought the mold into the house, she sent Jack and his mom off the deep-end. Even himself, once upon a time, but he had a secret weapon against her: a vaccine that keeps her influence out but her 'gift' in.
Due to his inventive ways and useful smarts, someone gave him that opportunity, but it was particularly hush-hush, "'til we get t' know each other better," he teased. His hands found their way onto her shoulders, massaging them as he spoke. As he talked about Eveline's desire to grow her family, he seemed so casual, like he'd gotten used to it over these few months. It felt as though Lucas from years before remained somehow, telling her about his day. She migrated closer to him. Everything he said was crazy and impossible but she'd seen it with her own eyes.
After he'd finished speaking, they sat in silence and she tried to comprehend it all. He held her. She felt sorry for him (and herself, now) — empathy, yet another emotion that Lucas brought to the surface. After nearly a year of apathy, she was finding her emotions again. Unfortunately, most of them were negative, but better than feeling nothing at all.
"Now I got a question fer you," he said softly in her ear. "I was tryin' t' keep ya away — not returnin' yer calls, not lookin' at yer texts. Why'd ya come back, Pers?"
Emotions flooded her chest and mind and her voice cracked as she spoke. "I needed you."
His arms tightened around her. "I still need you."
Uncooperative tears fell from her eyes. She wanted to believe that. "Terry is dead. Killed herself. She abandoned me, and… And I thought you did, too. I thought I was alone. It scared me."
"I'm sorry, Pers. I never wanted t' leave you, but I thought I could protect you. Guess I failed, didn' I? I just didn' know what t' do, what t' say. I was gone for a while — Evie's gift n' all — n' by that point, I figured you woulda… Ya know… Moved on. So I just didn' say anythin'." His voice was breathy, like a whisper, "God, I'm so sorry, Pers."
Tears rolled down her face. It hurt to hear his pain and understand his torment. He'd been hurting just as much as she had over the past months. A desperation to believe what he said clawed at her heart and mind — that he needed her, wanted to protect her. She felt the same. She still loved him. She still loved him so, so much. But how could she feel that way? Those feelings weren't right, were they? No, they couldn't be. That was too fucked up and she didn't want to think about it.
Persephone was back in Baltimore again — somehow — walking the streets of the city. But where the city was normally bustling and packed, it was now quiet, empty, and foreboding. She looked around for anyone at all, calling out a few cliché "hello?"s as she trekked. Then, from nowhere, feet dangled in front of her face, causing her to leap back. Her eyes followed them up to see Terry's corpse looming, face blue and swollen, hanging from an invisible space, the rope disappearing into the grey and cloudy sky. From inside Terry's bloated mouth, a mold spread, squirming and pulsating in vein-like structures down her body. Once it reached her toes, it grew like vines onto the ground, threatening to grab Persephone's feet.
She raced away from the scene, making it only a few steps when a car accident took place in front of her at the intersection. A city bus ran a red light just as a car turned left on the other side. They collided almost head-on. Her father's face burst from the windshield, bone smashed, blood pouring down the bonnet. Disembodied screams echoed all around, from a city once populated now desolate. Her dad had always had a bad habit of not wearing his seatbelt. She rounded the corner past the bus, hearing screams in her ear, disorienting her, causing her to run into Terry's corpse. When she tried to move, she found that her feet were fused with the black mold that poured from Terry. It clambered up her thrashing body, covering her clothes and skin. She opened her mouth to scream but the mold forced its way into her throat.
Persephone shot up from her nightmare, panting, feeling her stomach clench. She threw the covers off and rushed to the bathroom. Nothing came out, though she dry heaved over the toilet for a minute or so. She tried to breathe and calm down. Her sudden upheaval made her mind fuzzy. What had made her feel so sick to begin with? Though she wracked her brain, things continued to be hazy. The soft bed seemed better than the hard floor, though, so she got up to return to bed in hopes she could just pass out.
When she returned, she found Lucas sat upright, waiting for her. He was shirtless and she noticed she'd been sweating underneath his hoodie. She sat on the bed, unzipping the hoodie and sliding it off.
"Ya all right?" He asked.
She shook her head, stomach too queasy for her to want to talk. What did she even have to say to him at this point? Her violated body still felt the sting of betrayal. His arm around her waist confused her — a touch that pulled her mind in two, a touch she could do nothing about. She was his and there was nothing she could do. That was something she'd once loved, something she'd been happy to say aloud. Did she still love it? Some part of her screamed 'yes!'. Were those her true feelings? Or something more sinister? Was this better than the apathy she felt in Baltimore?
The violent reaction of her stomach threatened to rise again when she finally remembered that dream, the way the mold snuck down her throat and took root in her body. She shivered in panic, convinced now that none of this was real. No way. She'd been in a coma, facing this comatose dream, that had to be it. Or a sickness caused this huge fever dream. The mold, the way Lucas acted, her nightmares, her mother's death 'months' ago—
She dug her nails into her wrist.
The pain felt unmistakably real.