Octavia
Large, heavy hands roam my bare arms, sliding over my hips. I twist, trying to get away, but the hold on me tightens, hard and bruising.
Tears spill from my eyes without end, and still I make no sound.
I feel as though I could not even if I tried. Something has me locked in place. I simply cannot…
A breath brushes my ear.
“I told you,” he whispers. “You can cry all you want, as long as you do it silently. Actually… it will be better if you cry. I will enjoy it so much more. And do not worry. No one is coming to save you.”
My chest tightens.
His fingers trail across my stomach.
Why is he touching me like this?
I don’t understand.
Why me?
Why is he doing this?
Did no one see him come in…
A whimper slips from me before I can swallow it.
He laughs under his breath. “From the moment I saw you, I knew I wanted to break you… and now here we are.”
My pulse races so violently I feel sick.
His palm slides higher, over the curve of my waist, brushing beneath my chest…
“No,” I choke. “Stop—”
My throat burns.
His touch burns.
I cannot move, I cannot breathe. I am trapped inside my own body, suffocating beneath a man who…
“Be quiet,” he whispers, his lips brushing my cheek. “You do not want to make this worse… for you.”
My stomach twists violently, and I retch.
He bends closer, his mouth grazing my skin.
I want to vomit.
I want to scream.
I want to die.
His fingers slide down again, over my thigh, tightening…
I jolt awake with a choked gasp, looking around in disorientation as it takes me a moment to come back to myself, to properly see that I am in my bedroom, in my dorm, my room steeped in darkness.
My chest heaves as I sit up, fists tangling in the sheets, trembling so violently I feel the mattress shudder beneath me, sweat clinging to my skin, my hair sticking to the back of my neck, and when I swallow, my mouth tastes like metal.
Even awake, my mind keeps sending flashes of the nightmare, until my stomach lurches without warning.
I barely make it to the bathroom before the nausea wins, dropping to my knees as I retch into the toilet, my entire body shaking.
It goes on and on for what feels like ages.
When I finally stop retching, I flush and sink onto the toilet lid, folding forward and pressing my face into my palms as my breathing comes uneven, my vision blurring at the edges.
When the shaking eases, I stand, turn on the shower and move to the sink, washing my face and brushing my teeth with trembling hands, trying to convince my body that I am no longer trapped inside that nightmare.
My sleeping shirt clings to my skin as I peel it off and step beneath the spray, standing there while steam fills the room and my breathing finally steadies.
Then I begin to scrub, again and again, until my skin burns and turns raw.
When I step out, I feel no calmer, only more tightly wound, and I don’t pause to think or pretend I want to stop myself, but stride straight to the drawer beneath the sink and pull out the blade.
The moment it touches my skin, something in me loosens, relief sliding through me in a way I hate and understand all too well.
Tainted.
Tainted.
Tainted.
I have to force myself to stop this time, the voices in my head too loud and insistent.
I clean the wounds carefully so they will not infect, then wrap myself in my robe, knotting the belt around my waist before slipping into my slippers.
Once in my bedroom, I don’t even glance at the bed.
I cannot.
The sheets feel contaminated, poisoned by the memory.
Everything does.
I will burn them.
I walk straight into the living room, turn on the television, and put on The Addams Family, one of my favourite shows, something comforting grasp at while my mind tears itself apart.
The soft glow fills the room.
My eyes land on the digital clock beside the screen, flashing 2:21 a.m., and I know there is no chance I am going back to sleep.
I will end up killing myself if I have to go through that again, so soon after.
And I am not exaggerating.
Sometimes I just want it to stop.
The voices.
The feelings.
I sink to the floor between my canvases and choose a blank one.
I twist my damp hair into a messy bun, wedge a brush between my teeth, and begin mixing black paint with deep blues and purples.
Time slips away from me entirely.
When the sun finally rises, and the pale light spills into the room, I step back.
The piece is finished.
A girl kneels at the centre of the canvas, her head bowed, her hair veiling her face, her shoulders curled inward as though she is trying to make herself disappear.
Black strokes slash across her back, like shadows clawing at her skin, as though something dark is trying to drag her down into the abyss.
I stare at it for a long moment, my chest tight.
“I will frame this one,” I whisper to the empty dorm.
I step back, and begin cleaning, rinsing brushes, putting everything away.
Then I move into the kitchen and make my coffee.
I take my americano and my phone and walk towards the window in the living room, and as I watch the sun attempt to rise between the clouds, I think of the trigger behind my nightmare.
Markev.
And Talia.
Seeing them together, knowing what she claims he did to her, woke every demon inside me.
And yet, a small, foolish voice whispers that maybe, just maybe, she is lying.
But I silence it, even though it might be… reason.
I don’t believe children should pay for their parents’ sins… but perhaps this is an exception.
It is not right.
But life rarely is.
And I never claimed to be good.
I open the window, and the chill September rain slips inside, the wind skimming my face.
As I sip my coffee, I unlock my phone and send a message.
The reply comes instantly.
A single thumbs up.
I smile to myself as I turn toward my bedroom.
It is time Markev pays for his sins.
And this time, I will not miss.
Or perhaps that is wishful thinking.