Page 402 of Rage

I nod. “Yeah, just checking in for the anonymous room.”

He gestures toward the velvet rope behind him. “You’re good to go. Just remember—no talking in there.”

I walk past him, feeling that thrill tingle at the back of my neck and resist the urge to pull my hair down. This place had become a refuge of sorts—a fucked up opportunity to reclaim my body on my terms. In some weird way, I figure if I fuck enough people then I won’t think of all the ones who took advantage of me as I grew up.

I make my way down the narrow hallway, walls adorned with flickering lights and heavy velvet curtains that hang like secrets on parted lips in the corners of this club.

As I reach the door to the anonymous encounter room, I hesitate for a moment. Plunging into darkness where anything could happen should terrify me, but I don’t like to be seen. My body has been through too much, and I will not discuss where all my scars are from.

After discarding my clothing and putting my personal items in a small closet outside of the room, I turn the knob and step inside.

The air is thick with the heat from the thermostat and excitement, but it envelops me like a blanket rather than suffocating me. Pitch black takes over my senses; I can hardly see my hands before my face. I move deeper into the room, allowing myself to feel small and vulnerable.

It isliberating.

I often prefer this arrangement—the lack of sight meant no judgments, no expectations. Just bodies fumbling together in darkness; sometimes we fuck hard, other times with urgency. Sometimes, they became strangers who felt achingly familiar to my past.

In these moments, I allow myself to drift into darker fantasies. Sometimes, they took the form of faceless shadows—men or women whose bodies reminded me too much of those who had hurt me in the past. It twisted something inside me, an echo of pain wrapped in fleeting pleasure. But this is what I thought I needed to do to move on. Find a way to embrace what happened to me in some fucked up way.

But that’s why I kept going back to the support group—to acknowledge that I wasn’t okay, to remind myself that each Wednesday night didn’t have to be an escape but a step toward confronting my truth… however dark it may be.

Then I feel it—a gentle touch on my arm, light but deliberate.

“Is this okay?” a voice murmurs close to my ear.

I nod even though they can’t see me. My voice caught somewhere in my throat, the words lost in the thick air. I reach out tentatively and find their hands, fingers interlocking instinctively.

“No talking,” I finally replied, slightly irritated.

I allow myself to lean into the man before me, feeling our bodies align like puzzle pieces seeking completion. A surge of something like freedom washes over me and drowns out my mind’s thoughts. Adrenaline is my friend these days. And when it’s not, that’s what my meds are for.

But this was what I craved—intimacy stripped of expectations. At least, it’s what I tell myself.

Because in the next moments, things change.

He forces himself inside me within minutes, and then he’s spitting on my asshole before taking me there next.

It hurts.

It feels like I’m being ripped apart, and I cling to the cold vinyl cushions of the couch in front of me. This room only has this stupid couch and not a bed because that would be too intimate. No one wants that when they come to this room.

An extra hard thrust in my backside has tears streaming down my face, so I cling to Emily Dickinson as I dissociate and start to whisper to myself:

“Hope is the thing with feathers,

That perches in the soul…”

Chapter Four

Beckett

Three months. Ninety days. Two thousand, one hundred and sixty hours.

That’s how long it took me to gather the courage to step into the darkness with her.

I’d followed Mila to the club every Wednesday night like clockwork, always keeping a respectful distance. I wanted our first encounter to be on my terms, possibly even let her know of my plans to join her in this world.

But tonight, something changed. The pull to be near and comfort her was too strong.