Apartment — Sunday 3:14 am

I shower over and over again. My skin is red. Raw to the point of being painful. And yet, I'm not clean. I'd shower again but I ran out of soap. This will have to do. For now.

My mind is playing what happened over and over again like a reel of film. It won't stop no matter how much I want it to.

I see the brick wall.

I hear the unzip of his pants.

I feel the bead of sweat as it drips from his forehead onto my shoulder.

The walk home was just as bad. Every step a constant reminder. I can still feel the wetness dripping between my legs. A mixture of blood and him. I can't even look down there. It's too disgusting. Too vile.

The clothes I wore are in a trash bag behind my couch. I can't stand to have them in my apartment but the thought of going outside paralyzes me. They'll have to stay there for now.

I check to make sure my door is locked. Then I check again. And one more time. I still don't feel safe. I look around and spot a chair. The legs seem flimsy. Then I see my bookcase. It's made of wood. Heavy enough to keep someone away. It takes twenty minutes to drag it over but I feel better.

I try to lie down but I feel too exposed. My feet are pointed to the door. If someone came in, all they would have to do is grab my ankles, spread my legs and...

I run to the bathroom and heave but nothing comes out. Not surprising. I've been vomiting for the past hour. There's nothing left in me. Nothing but him.

I flush. The toilet is covered in puke. Another thing I'll have to clean tomorrow.