Page 65 of Keeping Her Under
Helpless.
Unable to stop me.
Unable to even scream.
“I didn’t date her. She didn’t consent to me, and you knew that.” I shove him away from me, my heart pounding. I told him she was in a coma. He flat-out asked me if I was going to rape her, and he didn’t correct my fucking delusion. “You let me hurt her,” I cry.
“Did you make her bleed?” he snaps.
“What? No! I’d never –”
“Did you leave bruises on her?”
“No –”
“Did you kill her boyfriend to protect her? Were you the only person who visited her? That gave a fucking damn about her?”
“Yes, but –”
“Then you didn’t hurt her.”
“But she called me a devil!”
“Did you ask her why?”
I open my mouth, then close it again. “I didn’t get the chance.”
“Then don’t do anything stupid until you do.”
“But what if she was aware when I was fucking her?” Whenever one of Mother’s boyfriends tried to talk to me after, that made it worse.
“Then you make it up to her.”
My jaw drops. “What the fuck? How? How can a fucking rapist make it up to his victim?” I shake my head, so fucking mad at him. “I killed your dad for you!”
“And did that fix me?” he snaps back. “Did that change a fucking thing for me?”
“He couldn’t rape you again –”
“Then don’t fucking rape her again! And don’t be even more of an asshole to her by taking your own life, you selfish prick!”
“What?” I rear back. Then lunge forward. “How is killing myself for her being selfish? I’d love for all my rapists to be dead!”
“Okay. I’ve killed them.” He shoves me out of his face. I fall against the window.
“No, you fucking haven’t!” Sitting up, I swing for his chest.
He blocks it, then hits me in the stomach. “Yes, I did.” He shoves me again as I wheeze. “You feel any better?”
“No! Because all you’re doing is hitting me!” I press a hand to my belly, the pain radiating from there making me wince.
“Just fucking imagine I killed them. Do you think all your nightmares will disappear? Do you think you can suddenly stand being touched or the sound of hips slapping in the dark?”
My throat tightens from merely hearing about it. “Maybe…” I say stubbornly.
“Bull-fucking-shit. Take it from someone who knows.” He slumps into his seat and runs a hand over his face. I struggle to think of a counter.
“Not everyone heals the same,” I finally say.
