The Flower
One block left, and I’m home. That wasn't so bad. It was actually quite relaxing. Walking home in the evening, with the city lights illuminating night the sky, makes me feel at peace. I love nighttime. It’s one of my favorite escapades.
I turn left into the short alleyway behind my apartment, taking a minor shortcut.
The heels of my feet are feeling sore, and I want to get home as soon as possible so I can put these babies in some cozy slippers.
The ambiance of the alley is dusky. Pure darkness, besides one small lamp.
My pace quickens as I hop over a puddle in the center.
Just as I'm at the cusp, a hooded figure turns the corner directly in front of me. I quickly come to a halt. The figure takes a step forward in my direction without hesitation. My eyes widen in terror. I turn to run in the other direction. It’s the only rational thing I can think to do.
Run, Dahlia. Run.
Anxiety surges through my body as I take off, and my fight-or-flight response kicks in.
My mouth opens to scream for help, but a large hand muffles my words.
My body lurches backward roughly. I kick and kick, but it’s of no use.
My hands reach behind me, feeling for a face, intending to scratch, but I’m met with hard plastic.
Oh, fuck.
The masked man picks me off my feet, and I am thrown face-first into the brick wall.
I wince as my face meets the rough bricks.
I press against it, using all my force, but the man is behind me, holding me in place.
No, not again. I told myself I would be better prepared if it happened again.
I’m frustrated with myself. I’m pinned and I can’t move.
I feel a hand cup my ass and I freeze. It's rough. It's unforgiving. It's unfamiliar. The fabric of his hood tickles my cheek as he comes closer, leaning into me more. He breathes heavily from my resistance. The hair on my body rises as a low guttering voice fills my ears.
“Stop moving, or I’ll throw you onto the fucking ground.” The words are unsettling, coating me in fear. It’s not like the tone from before. Who the fuck is this?
The hand reaches into my leggings from behind.
I flail my arms, trying to grasp at anything.
I need to get him off me. Tears begin to run down my face, like acid on my cheeks, scraped raw from the brick.
I’m thrown from the wall, and my body quickly meets the concrete, forcing the air out of my lungs.
It takes me far too long to comprehend what just happened.
My bloody palms struggle beneath me as I use all my strength to push myself up.
A sob escapes me as the gravel prickles unforgivingly on my skin.
Get up, Dahlia. Get the fuck up.
I manage to crawl only a few inches before my body is pressed into the concrete once more. My vision blurs as my lungs seize with the lack of oxygen.
“H-Help,” I say breathlessly. I’m flipped over.
Every ounce of my body braces, feeling pain coarse through me.
Filth cakes my face, mixing with my tears and blood.
My arms reach forward, and I claw at the man who is climbing on top of me.
I am fighting with every fiber of my being.
I have to fight with every fiber of my being.
I blink, trying to clear my eyesight. My arms are pinned to my sides in an instant. A wave of disbelief washes over me, leaving me frightened. I’ve never seen this mask before.
“Stop struggling. You seemed to enjoy this before. Now be a good whore and lie there.” The man says with an impatient growl. W-What did he say?
His front presses against mine, leaving me caged. I feel his slimy, rough hand reach back into my leggings, this time it's not from the back. My hips buck forward, trying to get away.
“N-no. P… please, stop,” I grunt desperately.
This is not the masked man from the parking garage.
He is not my stalker. My body goes numb, feeling his fingers meet my core.
His touch is rough and violent, sending searing pain through my body.
My sobs turn into rivers of surrender. This is it.
There is nothing else I can do. I tried. I tried my best, and it wasn't enough.
The hardening of his dick on my thigh has my stomach acid stirring. He’s panting and groaning, getting off on what he's doing to me. I turn my head, trying to put any distance I can between us. I don’t think I can fight anymore. My body is exhausted. I start to count the bricks on the wall.
One, two, three, four, five…
If I just let him have what he wants, it’ll be over soon. I feel the top of my pants being lowered. The roughness of his jeans rubs against me, chaffing my skin.
Six, seven, eight…
A sudden gust of wind brushes over me, and I no longer feel a warm, revolting body weighing me down. Somewhere in my mind, I know I’m being saved, but my mind slowly fades away into nothingness. All I can do is lie there, numb.
Large hands grasp my cheeks, turning my head straight. My eyes follow behind and meet familiar ones. I should be grateful. I should be relieved. I’m being rescued, but it doesn't feel like it. I hear a distant voice.
“Dahlia. Dahlia, baby, are you okay? I’m here,” he says repeatedly.
I can’t bring myself to say anything. His eyes search mine in desperation.
He leans forward, picking me up, and cradling me in his arms. I let him.
I stare at him, taking him in. He is enraged; I can see it in his eyes.
But when he looks at me, it’s with softness.
My hand comes up touching his mask. It’s the only gesture I can make to let him know that I’m glad he found me. He looks at me like I’m a broken piece of china.
I’m not sure if being in his arms is any safer than where I just was, but a feeling deep within me knows that I am. If I wasn't, he wouldn't have saved me, right? It’s the only thought I have keeping me from breaking apart right now. I’ll hold on to it a little longer.
He carries me to my apartment. This is the first time I haven't felt frightened of him being here. All the lights are off. Looks like Zoe is still out with her guy. What am I going to say to her? I have to tell her what happened to me. She is the only person who I can confide in. I’m not ready for a conversation like that yet, though.
I wince as I’m lowered onto my bed, my body aching in pain while the room fades in and out. I see the masked stranger disappear into my bathroom and return with a wet cloth. I’m dazed. Confused. Defeated. What is he doing?
He sets the cloth on my nightstand before approaching the end of my bed.
I watch as he grabs my shoes, removing one after the other.
I don't have any will within me to move, so I don’t.
The skin on my ankle is met with brisk air, as my socks are no longer hugging my feet.
I rub them against one another anxiously.
The masked man looks at me; he doesn't have to say a word for me to know he's reassuring me that everything will be okay. His fingers graze the top of my leggings and my body stiffens. His deep voice absorbs the quiet dreariness of the room as he removes his touch.
“If you don’t feel comfortable, I won’t.
” I meet him in silence as my brain runs a million miles per minute.
The thing is, I don’t even think I can help myself.
I’d probably just lie here in this filth for the next day or two without his help.
He’s patient as he watches the war in my eyes.
If he wanted to hurt me, he would have already. I give him a gentle, but hesitant nod.
He slowly and very gently lines the seam of my leggings and clasps them.
Little goosebumps wake at the brush of his knuckles.
I feel the material slowly start to lower, exposing me, but this time, not for pleasure.
A tear spills out unwillingly, and I begin to sob again.
I can’t control it. My hands come up, covering my face from embarrassment, but they're quickly removed.
“Look at me, Dahlia. Look at me. You are safe with me. I can stop if you want me to. I just want to help,” he says, as his tone begs, pleading for me to give him some sort of reassurance. But I can’t. I can't look at him. I feel disgusting. I feel violated. I feel useless.
The bed dips as he sits next to me, still holding my hands.
He stays with me in silence while tears of defeat leak down my face, wiping them as they fall.
He probably thinks I’m disgusting now too.
I wouldn't be surprised if he never came to see me again. He just feels sorry for me. I can see it when he looks at me. At least I won’t have to worry about him breaking into my apartment anymore.
Minutes go by without a sound. He sits until all the tears are drained out of me. I’m ashamed. I couldn't fend for myself, and my stalker is now cleaning the aftermath because I can't.
He leaves my side, and I immediately feel empty. He takes the damp towel from the nightstand in one hand, and takes my chin with the other. The rough fabric feels like a betrayal as it grazes against my broken skin, cleaning the grime unsympathetically. I let out a whimper at the contact.
The masked man eases some of the pressure as he continues to wipe my cheeks clean.
My eyes scan him for a moment. Noticing how gentle he is caring for me, as if it's his purpose. His eyes meet mine, and for a brief moment, it feels like the world has paused, and I’m no longer in my own living nightmare.
I no longer feel pain. I no longer feel anything. I only feel him here with me.