after all these years

Four

tw: self-harm, graphic depictions of said self-harm, Heavily implied/stated past rape (more so than usual)

"Come on," she whispered, fingers trailing along his waistband, "you know you want this."

He shook his head, too overwhelmed by everything happening to push her off. "Wait - no - don't. I don't -" He couldn't even finish his sentence before she put a hand over his mouth, shushing him with a smirk.

"You're a big boy now, yeah?"

Mark wanted to say no, he wanted so badly to push her off and go home, to see his mom and curl up under the blankets with her and be safe - but he was there. Alone with his "girlfriend" three days after his birthday with no way out.

He should've just knocked her to the ground. He could have probably done it.

But then she touched him again and his nerves were so fried he couldn't think about that anymore. "Sixteen years old, coming out here all alone. You know you want it - all boys do." The pants were dragged down, and the boxers followed.

Fuck, why didn't he push her off?

Her hand reached out to grab his face, and then suddenly he was in the same apartment he lived in at twenty-three.

The position never changed, though.

The same woman (if a half-decade older) grabbed his chin, forcing him to lean against the headboard as she moved to his pants. "You came back to me," she muttered. Her face was so close to his legs - he could've just kneed her and ran. He could've escaped. "I told you you wanted it. You came back."

He shook his head no, but it was futile. He did go back. Seventeen-year-old him had escaped but his twenty-one-year-old self had gone back and now he was paying for it. Living without pain just felt too wrong.

"You'll never truly leave me. You're stuck with me forever." Mark started crying, then. She was right. 

He sits up quickly, barely catching himself from screaming in his sleep and startling Amy awake. It's the third time this week, and he runs a shaky hand through his hair. Nightmares like this are getting much too common.

The bed creaks as he leaves it, but the dogs stay put, already used to his frequent walks at night. Sometimes they join him as he floats around the house, but it seems like tonight he's stuck with his own company. That's fine, he doesn't really want anyone to see him like he is anyway. Walking around the house aimlessly, touching the walls just to remind himself that they're real. It's something he wants to keep to himself.

Once he finally stops pacing, Mark stops and finds himself in the living room. His eyes are adjusted to the dark already, so it's easy to make out the shapes of the painting on the wall, and he lets his gaze unfocus as he thinks about the dream he had.

She was right, wasn't she? He was never going to escape her. It had been almost six years since the last time he saw her, and he was still falling apart at the seams.

He runs his hand down his side absent-mindedly, and even his own touch makes him want to vomit. She's all over him. Inside of him. His body isn't his own, and he's not sure if it ever was.

So instead, he thinks about the end of his relationship with her. By then, most people knew it was at least toxic, so finding a place of his own was met with nothing but encouraging words and kind gifts. Mark's grateful for that - grateful for his friends' support - but that's not what he's truly thinking about.

He's thinking about the night his mom held him, just like he wanted her to all those years ago, and told him that all of his cells would replace themselves in seven years. How it would be nice to finally have something she didn't touch, and that he just had to hold out until then.