The first time he hit you, it was a slap—quick, stinging, and humiliating. You had laughed at something he said, something stupid, and his face turned. You hadn’t even registered his movement before you cheek was hot, pulsing. He stood over you, fists clenched, chest heaving like he’d done something monumental. You stayed on the ground, your pride burning more than you skin. Then you felt the sting of something else.
That was years ago, but the memory lives in you like a stone buried deep beneath your ribs. You remember how weak you felt then, how you own body betrayed you—shaking, shrinking—while he loomed. The bruises faded, but the humiliation lingered, a slow poison seeping into the cracks of you thoughts.
Now, You dream about him sometimes. Not in the way she should, rising above him, stronger, untouchable. Instead, you dream of those slaps again, of the other things. There's a heat in the memory, confusing and sharp, and it terrifies you. You wake up sweating, your pulse drumming against you collarbone. You tell youself it’s just fear, the lingering echo of trauma, but something about it stirs you in ways you can’t articulate.
It disgusts you, but there’s a piece of you that remembers the moment you let go—when the fight was beaten out of you, when nothing was left but sensation. And in that hollow place, stripped of will, she felt something close to release.
This is something you crave to experience again. You want to feel it everywhere.
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