He held me as I cried, my drunken sobs echoing through his chest as I sunk my mascara-covered face into him. He cooed to me and filled my ears with hopes and reassurances. I trusted him, I had no reason not to. He guided me up what seemed like a mile of stairs, towards the bed I would spend the rest of the night in. This wasn't my house, this wasn't my bed, but he was my friend. I should have let him leave me alone, but I was scared, scared of the thoughts racing through my pounding head. I didn't want to be alone in a place I didn't know. I was drunk and he held me. I felt his warm hands on my cold, fragile body, they traced across me as I lay there. I was too tired, too exhausted, too drunk to deny a sober man of what he clearly wanted. I was weak, mentally and physically. He held me, but differently this time. His body was close against mine, I never thought he saw me like this before. My body was still, motionless, my mind was numb, I felt nothing. His body entered my system like a virus, working its way inside me with no concern to the damage it would do to me. Do I want this? I must do, he wouldn't do it if I hadn't given him the reason to. It must be my fault. We are friends of course. I wake up, his biological evidence dripping down my violated flesh. I argue not with him, this is my fault. It must be. He takes me to the kitchen, he gives me water and makes sure i've eaten. How could a man who just touched the insides of my quickly diminishing body act as if nothing had happened? I must have allowed him. Thats the only conclusion i wish to draw. Hes my friend. But would a friend have done what he did?
