I don’t think about it as I step on Orange Mask’s foot. The moment his grip loosens from around me, I duck and run.
I don’t look behind. I don’t wait for him to catch up. I run and run andrun.
My heart gets stuck in my throat and the only thing I think about is how the hell did I not have a panic attack like I do whenever I’m in any sexual situation.
Most importantly, why are my thighs clenching, throbbing, and demanding I go back to that merciless stranger?
3
CECILY
It’s a miracle that I manage to reach the dorm and sneak into the flat I share with my childhood friends without getting caught.
No lights are on and the only sound is the melancholic cello coming from Ava’s room.
If she sees me like this, covered in scratches, with a hole in my jeans and a frantic look in my eyes, she’ll definitely start a questionnaire that’s filled with drama.
Lotsof drama.
I remove my shoes at the door and tiptoe across the length of the living room, wincing every time the cut on my knee and lacerations in my hand throb.
Once I’m in my room, I close the door, lean against it and then slide to the ground, hugging my legs to my chest.
My nails clink against each other as I stare at the walls entirely covered by pages from my favorite mangas. The figures appear shadowy under the dim lighting, looking as if they might become real and jump down beside me.
That’s what I take solace in—the images of fictional characters.
I’ve never been the type who asked my friends for help or told them about what I struggled with. Everyone sees me as the mother figure, the problem solver, and the listener.
Whenever I yearn to be listened to instead, nails dig into my chest, forbidding me from moving. From finding refuge in anyone but myself and fictional characters that don’t exist and have little chance of offering practical advice.
My fingers hover over the injury to my knee and I groan in pain when I touch the ripped skin.
But that’s not the only sensation tearing through me. No. It’s something much more potent and damning.
The pain might start with my skin, but it ends in the dark corners of my psyche. In unknown nameless places that even I didn’t know existed until it slammed me in the face today.
My fingers slide from my knee to the edge of my ripped jeans, ghosting over my thigh. I shiver and clench my leg when I touch my hip.
Something a lot more intense than pain slices through me, and my fingers tremble before they move up to stroke over my breast.
The same breast Orange Mask grabbed so savagely, tortured and dug his fingers into until I was gasping for air. But it’s not the same feeling now. The flesh is tender, my nipples ache, but the electricity from earlier is gone.
I lift my other hand, wrap it around my throat, and squeeze. Like the length of the golf club that crushed my trachea. I tighten my grip and hold, but no amount of pressure from my dainty fingers is enough to recreate the same image.
There are no rough gloved fingers squeezing my nipple, no wall of muscle at my back. Nothing.
I let my hands fall on either side of me.What the hell am I doing?
How could I recreate the image of being trapped with that monster when I should be glad I escaped him?
Or maybe I’m not recreating the being trapped part as much as I’m trying to reach the state of mind I was in at that moment.
The blankness of it all.
The promise of freedom it held.
I internally shake my head, purging all of that out of memory.