It rained for hours. Yet I did not move. I needed Craig and George to believe I was still a vegetable.

The red sky that died into the night turned an inky black that was still visible with a glowing white moon behind the black clouded shutters. Water drops still trickled off the wet debris and into the ocean below, though the rain dwindled into a depressing drizzly haze.

I could still smell the sulfur, and the ash. . . I don't know where the bloody color of the sky nor the ash had come from; but I imagined hopefully that it was a fire burning from another bay house that stranded another set of six people just like our party's. But that was just wishful thinking. There was no one like us around. Not for miles. Maybe not even for days. I could still taste Jack's lingering kiss from days ago. Or maybe that was the saliva still stuck on my lips from the unrequited kisses Craig had planted on me earlier. His freezing hand was still stuck like a puzzle piece in mine as he slept with a soft snore.

I would not move until they both asleep, so I could turn the boat around. George was still awake, relentlessly rowing the boat against metal scraps in the water. He could see nothing; yet, maybe he had bat like senses. I wouldn't be surprised if he was a disgusting bat. No offense to bats.

I was surprised by my own stoicism. I never realized how long I could go without eating, yet staying still helped harvest my energy.

Into the night, I could hear Craig fall asleep while holding my hand. George had stopped the boat, and because it was very cold, George pulled his body up against me. And to my utter revulsion, he spooned me, taking full advantage of my appeared unconsciousness.

I did not shiver. I did not budge. Though he began to stick his freezing hand on my waste. And then tucked it underneath the hem of my shirt, and rose it up my belly, and then put his spidery fingers across my chest. He gripped my breast in his hands. . . and began to take advantage of me. . .

I line was beginning to blur. The heat in my head dazed me with horrified confusion as he pressed himself into my back. I hated him. He was exploiting me in the dark, thinking I would never know. My body was not a damn toy! I am a human being! George was an even worse person than I had imagined. He was a pig. A misogynist. A little shit. I hated him so much. I hated him so much I was beginning to hate myself so much as well for letting me hate him so bad that it hurt me.

He began to advance into worse territory of my body, and I wanted to scream. I wanted to wake Craig and tell Craig to kill George for what he was doing to me. No desperation could justify such exploitation. In the time of Harvey Weinstein and the feminine movement. . . was I doing myself and the universe of women who could still be alive beyond the sea an insufferable injustice by remaining still? I was letting myself be fingered, like a cow—for a boy.

Had I lost myself.

I did not scream in this terrible night. I did not moan. I did not cry out loud.

I just let George kill me inside. Let him use me. And wondered if it was worth it. . . to live anymore. And just like that my thoughts drowned under the surface of the most terrible sacrifice I'd ever endured.

And what's worse. . .

To save my sanity. . .

I then tried to enjoy it. . .

I couldn't.

I fell asleep. And died.

Hashtag Me, too.

Suddenly I got the feeling. . . that I would be the one to kill George in the end.