I hate myself for it.
I hate my parents for never letting me have any sort of life outside of my father’s campaigns.
How fucked up is it that even nefarious attention from a man who is no doubt going to end up killing me makes me react this way?
It’s fear, I argue internally. I’m not aroused. I’m terrified. Even if I hadn’t seen him shirtless at the surf shop, I’d know he is stronger than me. I have no hope of fighting him off if he advances. I might get in a few scratches, but he’d leave me broken and bleeding.
If I don’t fight, is it still considered assault? The educated side of me says yes, but that part of me that’s always been told there has to be proof for people to believe it is also a big part of my psyche.
He’s no longer appealing to me, and I had to have had a moment of temporary insanity to even consider for a second that he was good looking.
He’s a monster, a villain.
No.
He’s the damn devil.
“Out,” he says, making me realize I’m still standing in the shower.
My body moves instinctively, his threats enough to control me.
He doesn’t step in closer to me. Instead, he reaches to the side, pulling a towel from the rack before holding it out to me.
He isn’t near enough for me to take it from his hand without walking closer to him. He’s going to make me approach him, and I struggle with that as well.
I’m doing exactly what he says.
Will this be what he plans to use in his own defense? Will he tell everyone that asks that I wanted whatever it is he plans to dish out?
My hands shake uncontrollably as I take two steps toward him before reaching out to grasp the towel.
He doesn’t pull it back in an effort to taunt me.
As quickly as possible I wrap it around my body.
“It’s warm,” I tell him absently, feeling only slightly better now that I’m not fully exposed to him.
A single layer of fabric won’t protect me, but it’s like blankets on you at night, a false sense of security. With what’s happened to me so far, I’m willing to take any reprieve I’m offered and bask in it.
“I’m a criminal, a kidnapper, not a savage,” he says in a bored tone. “Now, dry off.”
I do the best I can to soak up all the water on my skin without exposing myself again, but I notice the way he follows each droplet of water that runs down my skin from my soaked hair.
My eyes burn with fresh tears as I pull the towel from my body. I bend, wondering if this is the moment he attacks as I roughly swipe the towel over and through my hair.
In a different life, one before I became a victim, I would never do this. My haircare is a full routine, so extensive that I sometimes go an extra day or two to avoid the effort it requires.
I hear my mother’s voice in my head about split ends and how self-care is important because people notice when you don’t put forth the effort.
What does it say about how we’ll take care of our voters if we’re not taking care of ourselves?
“There’s no point in that,” he says when I try to wrap the towel back around my body. “Here.”
I track him across the room, taking a step back as he approaches a cabinet near me.
He doesn’t look pleased or annoyed that I’m avoiding him. He doesn’t react the way he did when I flinched from his touch after I first woke up.
I stare at his hand when he holds out a pile of clothes.