Another author's note! The chapters on Wattpad are a lot better, because I am used to Wattpad, and can be bothered using italics and bold. I know I haven't been putting trigger warnings and disclaimers, but at least the triggers were in the description and here's the disclaimer now: I do not own any of these characters or universes. The only things I own are the plotlines. Enjoy...
Frank Zhang's body was twisting and turning painfully. Well, it would be painful for him if he wasn't sleeping. Just another nightmare, he had gotten used to them by now.
Then again, you couldn't really call it a nightmare. More accurately, a flashback.
Dirty hands roaming his body. He could recall the precise details of his hands, crawling over his body.
Unrepeatable things whispered in his ears. Over and over again. Like having to hear them the first time wasn't bad enough.
When the memories were triggered back, the feelings came in stages.
Shame.
Why him? Why did he have to fall victim to those unforgiving hands. Don't let anyone know how disgusting you are. How you have already been used and tossed aside.
Depression.
You deserve it. You deserve the nightmares. You deserved the traumatic experience and everything that came along with it.
Anger.
How could this happen? How could someone so terrible have been brought into your life? I want him dead.
Disgust.
How do you see someone and think, God, I should ruin their lives. I should be the one to plague their minds every night and the one who he should be reminded of every time he sees himself. How can you look at a complete stranger and decide to touch their body in ways it shouldn't be touched. Why is that the first thing that comes to mind?
A single word could bring it all back. The smallest touch could cause the pain to come flooding, all over again.
Frank. Sweet, innocent Frank. You wouldn't think that he was waking up at 1 a.m. screaming, covered in sweat and vomit. You wouldn't notice the constant panic and fear in his eyes unless you knew him before the incident.
It's the late nights that really get to him. Once he has nothing to distract himself with, his thoughts immediately dart back to that one night. The sticky skin-on-skin. The body that was so forcefully pushed against his. The hand Frank couldn't get off of him, sliding under the waistband of his shorts. The cries for help that for some reason, just couldn't leave his throat.
And now, 16 and while all his friends sex drives are at their all times highs, Frank won't let anyone touch him. He can't. Not even himself.