Gemma
Strong arms squeeze me so tightly, I can’t move. My breath feels restricted, and I try to gulp in a lungful of air, only to draw short. I gasp, my breaths accelerating alongside my heartbeat.
This time, I won’t get away with only a scar on my stomach, I just know it.
This time, I’m going to die, just like my poor mamma. She bled out all alone because our attacker wouldn’t let me go to her. Maybe I could have helped somehow, put some pressure on that throat wound or something. Instead, I was trapped in his arms, forced to watch my mamma’s panicked stare and listen to her whispered, “Ti voglio tanto bene,” while the life left her body. I told her I loved her so much too, but I don’t think she heard it anymore at the end.
Despite what happened back then, I still claw at my attacker now, trying with all my might to get him off me. He shakes me, yelling something in my ear that I can’t understand properly. Sweat runs down my back, and I tremble in his arms. I’m still clawing and pinching, trying to get my hands on anything I can. My legs lie immobile under one of his, but I’m happy with any damage I’m causing. The more damage, the better. A small opening is all I need to escape.
The man must have come to the same realization since I’m suddenly flipped over, and his whole weight collapses on me, his arms holding mine completely hostage. A sharp pain registers on my side, and I whimper. He already hurt me.
“Please don’t.” I try to buck up with my hips, but he remains unmoving.
He’s talking again too, but I still can’t hear him.
Something presses against my lips, and I try to recoil but don’t have anywhere to go.
Now that he’s even closer, I can smell him. Woodsy with a hint of orange.
So opposite of what he smelled like last time when he reeked of sweat and that terrible cologne I’ll never be able to forget. It ruined anything vanilla-flavored or scented for me for all eternity.
A thought tingles at the edge of my mind.
Don’t I know someone who smells like oranges?
Who was that again?
Pressure.
More pressure against my mouth.
The lips on mine become more persistent. They feel familiar. Why do they feel familiar?
And why did I stop fighting him?
I gasp for air, and the man uses that moment to delve into my mouth.
My eyes fly open, and tears stream down my cheeks as I enter reality.
It was a dream.
Only a dream.
And a vicious one at that.
I had them on a regular basis right after the attack, and I’ve had a random one here or there over the years, but never anything like this.
Matteo—it’s only been Matteo this whole time—pulls back to stare at me with wide eyes in the moonlit room.
His thumbs brush over my cheeks, wiping away the wetness. “Fuck, baby.”
Then he closes his eyes and leans his forehead against mine, taking deep breaths that I try to match in order to calm down my own erratic breathing.
I’m okay.
I’m okay.
I’m okay.