The Real Scömìche

Scott

It was three years ago again and I was kissing Alex. He pulled me to his room, but I was reluctant. Alex, much stronger than me, pushed me on to his bed and slapped my face. My eyes watered as he forced my clothes off of me, and I clutched my wounded face. I struggled against him but I could not fight him. He was too strong. I curled into a ball, trying to hide myself from him again. But he didn't let me. He never let me. He locked the door, and tore his own clothes off. I closed my eyes tight afraid of what Alex would do to me again. He started kissing me aggressively, wrenching my mouth open to allow his tongue to enter like a slimy worm. He slapped me again and again, commanding me to kiss him back. He dug in to the bruises he'd left the days and weeks before, causing me writhe in pain as he threatened to press harder unless I agreed. I was helpless. I could tell no one. I could not escape. He forced his hips against mine, as I screamed in pain. He grabbed his knife from his bedside table, yelling at me to shut up. He slit my arm once again, allowing the blood to flow until I stopped screaming. He then grabbed a t shirt and pressed it to my arm, continuing to kiss me, beginning to bite...

I woke in horror. The text had reignited the past. I panted, sweating in terror. The bedroom door burst open, and Mitch switched on the light.

"I heard you yelling! Are you okay?" Mitch's face was distraught.

"It was, it was, er, a bad dream." I answered vaguely, but looked in Mitch's beautiful eyes, begging him to not make me relive it. He seemed to understand and turned off the light and closed the door. He slipped under my sheets, and rested his head on my bare chest. I kissed the top of his head, trying to stop my hands shaking in fear. I snuggled up to my boyfriend, feeling the scars on my arm tingling.