Black Rose

It happened.

Trigger warning: chapter contains sexual assault and confronting language.

It felt like he broke me.

It was as if he tore me in two, ripping me open and enjoying himself while doing it. I couldn't even scream, my mouth forced shut with fabric and layers upon layers of tape. He couldn't stop me from crying, though. Or fighting. I struggled every second.

Yet it still happened.

There was no way to trick him into changing his mind. No way to delay him long enough to escape. No way to stop it.

As it happened, I kept playing over different possibilities in my mind. Things I could have done to stop this from happening. What if I had done things differently?

If I hadn't have pushed his plate off the table. If I hadn't had angered him. If I'd have given in, and done what he asked off me.

But then I went further. What if, instead of getting angry and doing the dumb and idiotic move of ruining his dinner, I had reached for the knife he'd been using to cut his dinner. I could have escaped. I could have done it, even with my hands cuffed.

If I had grabbed his knife, and escaped, he wouldn't have done it. He couldn't have.

Or, even further. What if I had done things differently before? What if I had never been kidnapped? If I'd followed Jordan, rather than waited in the car park idly, the perfect victim for him to steal. I would never have even been his rose. 

I tried to use the what if's to escape that room. I tried. Yet every time I tried to lose myself in what could have been, I came crashing back into the moment, into the truth.

I was kidnapped, I couldn't escape, and he was breaking me.

Piece by piece. Bit by bit. My body cracked. My mind fractured. I felt him ripping through me, forcing himself into me, and I cried. Each thrust of his hips tore apart my remaining resolve.

All I could do was cry.

Eventually, his rhythm slowed, and he let out a low grunt. When he pulled away, I let out a muffled cry of pain. He just smirked down at me, exhaustion written across his features.

"That," He grunted, panting, "was amazing. You are a natural. And to think I've been holding out, thinking you can't handle it." Then, he leant down, and whispered in my ear. "I can't wait until next time, my rose."

I whimpered, and clenched my eyes shut. Next time. He would do it again. Any ounce of hope I had remaining vanished with those words.

He laughed at me. "Oh, come on, my rose. Surely you're not shy. Not now."

I just sobbed, and I heard him chuckle. "Alright. If you want to sulk, suit yourself. Shall I leave you here on your own?"

My heart beat faster at the thought and I whimpered, and thrashed against my bonds. He paid no attention to my struggles, but let out a fake sigh.

"Well, if you wish, my rose, though I don't know how this can be comfortable for you. Not to mention, you've got blood all over these lovely sheets. But I'm sure you can clean those up later." He pat my leg and I whimpered. He pressed on. "Right, now I'm going to get myself some dinner. Do you want anything?"

I opened my eyes and eagerly nodded, pleadingly, but he just gave me a false apologetic look and pouted. "Oh, that's right. You're on a diet. Well, I wouldn't want to make you any fatter, my rose. In fact, I think it's rather good of you to just stay here for a while. That way you're not tempted to break your fasting."

I tried to scream through the gag, but all that came out were muffled cries. He smirked at me. "Well, I'll see you in a few hours, my rose. I can help you out of those bonds of yours. In the meantime, you should get some rest.

He stalked away, and I tried to break free, hoping with every part of me that he wouldn't leave me there, tired and broken, lying in a bed of my own blood. Yet I knew from all he was saying and all that he had done, he would. His voice came from the doorway, sickly sweet and cheery.

"Sweet dreams, my rose."

Then he clicked out the light and plunged the room into darkness. Into the black, I cried.

He broke me.