Forest

Chapter Seven

I don't know how long it's been. If it has been days or just a few hours but it's all a blur—disconnected form the reality of time. When I woke up, the man was gone. 

I can't remember his face. I can't recall his voice or the 

My mind spirals, grasping at fragments, but I can't recall his face nor his voice, nor his smell. It's as if my mind has erased him, trying desperately to shield me from the nightmare. My mind refuses to piece him together, as though it's protecting me by erasing him. But it doesn't feel like protection. It feels like torment. The gaps in my memory is , a constant reminder of how helpless I was. How helpless I am.

It always happens like this—my body remembers what my mind refuses to. The bruises, the scars, the raw wounds on my skin tell stories I don't want to hear. But this time, unlike all the others, the memory doesn't let go. It clings to me, cruel and clear.   I don't need to remember the details because they are written all over me.

My fingers brush against my neck traces the outline of where his finger pressed againt my bare skin, and I flinch. It's tender, bruised. I can still feel his hands there, rough and unyielding, fingers pressing hard into my throat. The memory is so vivid I can feel his grip, the way his finger dug into my skin, lifting me off the ground as if I weighed nothing, his grip stealing my air, crushing my voice. 

The memory hits me like a wave, sudden and suffocating. My chest tightens, my breathing quickens. Each shallow gasp feels like I'm back there, back in that moment. My chest tightens as if his hand is still there, still squeezing, choking.The room spins, and my lungs beg for air, but it feels like he's here again, squeezing, taking, breaking.I know he's not here. I know it. But my body doesn't care. It's screaming, panicking, unraveling with every breath.

'Stop,' I whisper to myself, my voice breaking under every word that leaves my mouth. 'He's not here. He's not here.'

But the reassurance is hollow. My heart doesn't believe it. My body doesn't believe it.

Each inhale feels shallower than the last. My chest rises and falls rapidly, but it's not enough. I can't seem to get the air I need, as if his shadow is watching over me, pressing down, suffocating me all over again. Tears blur my vision, and panic claws at my throat.

I press my hands to my head, gripping my hair as if the pain will anchor me. "He's not here," I say again, louder this time. My voice cracks, and it doesn't feel like mine.

The tears come harder now, streaking down my cheeks and spilling onto the thin fabric of the t-shirt that is covering my body. My body convulses with sobs, raw and guttural, each one tearing through me like a storm. I clutch my knees to my chest, curling into myself as if I can make myself disappear.

I feel so small. So weak. So broken.

My mind conjures images I don't want to see—the door creaking open, his shadow falling over me, the cold, cruel look in his eyes. What if he comes back? What if this time, he doesn't stop? What if he finally decides to finish what he started?

A fresh wave of terror grips me, and I let out a crying scream, the sound foreign to my own ears. It's primal, the cry of someone who's been pushed too far, who's been shattered too many times.

"You have to stop," I whisper to myself between sobs. "You're making it worse."

But how do you stop a storm that's already tearing through you?

The thought of him seeing me like this—weak, vulnerable, destroyed—it makes my stomach turn. He'll use it against me. He'll twist it, turn it into something he can wield to break me even further. I can't let him see me like this.

With a sudden burst of desperation, I swipe at my tears, scrubbing them away even as more fall. My breath hiccups, but I force it out, shaky and uneven.

"You have to stay strong," I mutter, my voice cracking. "For yourself. For you. Stand up. You can't let him win."

But my body betrays me. My stomach growls, a sharp and hollow sound that echoes in the silence. I can't remember the last time I ate. The hunger gnaws at me, but it's drowned out by the ache that radiates through every inch of me.

Heat flashes through me, and then I'm shivering, the cold seeping into my bones. My hands shake as I press them to my face, trying to steady myself. One moment I'm burning up, the next I feel like ice.

My body aches, and the pain is relentless. My ribs protest with every breath, my arms feel heavy and bruised, and my legs tremble with exhaustion. It's as if my body is screaming at me to give up, to collapse, to surrender.

But I can't.

I close my eyes and focus on my breath. One inhale. One exhale. It's ragged and uneven, but it's something. It's all I have.

The tears slow, though they don't stop completely. My heart still races, but the pounding in my ears begins to fade. I grip my knees tighter, grounding myself in the sensation of my own skin.

"You can do this," I whisper again, quieter this time. "You have to."

The pain doesn't go away. The fear doesn't vanish. But for now, I cling to the faint hope that I can keep going. One breath at a time. One moment at a time.

I open my eyes and stare at the door, half-expecting it to swing open. But it doesn't. For now, the room is empty. For now, I am alone.