Tayvis One-Shots

liar

Taylor's POV

The air in the courtroom was stale, thick with tension, but I could barely feel it. My hands were clenched in my lap, fingernails digging into the skin of my palm, just to feel something, anythin, —other than the sickening numbness that had wrapped itself around me.

I had sat in this chair every day for weeks, listening to lawyers dissect my life like I was nothing more than a case file, like what had happened to me was up for debate.

The man who had done this to me sat across the room, wearing an expensive suit and a smug, practiced expression. His defense team had torn me apart piece by piece, what I was wearing, what I was drinking, why I had gone to that party in the first place. 

As if any of it mattered. As if it gave him the right to drug me. Rape me.

But to them, it did matter.

To them, it was enough to twist my story into something unrecognizable.

And now, as the jury foreperson rose, my heart slammed against my ribs, making it impossible to breathe. I wanted to believe in justice. I wanted to believe that the truth would be enough.

But deep down, I knew.

"Has the jury reached a verdict?" the judge asked.

"Yes, Your Honor."

The courtroom felt smaller, the walls pressing in as I held my breath.

"In the case of the State versus Daniel Carter, on the charge of sexual assault, we, the jury, find the defendant-"

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"-not guilty."

A ringing silence filled the room.

And then, chaos.

The sound of someone gasping. Murmurs rippling through the courtroom. The judge's gavel slamming down, calling for order.

But all I could hear was the rushing in my ears.

Not guilty.

It echoed inside my skull, over and over, until I felt sick. My stomach twisted painfully, and my vision blurred.

No. No, this couldn't be real.

I stared straight ahead, but I wasn't seeing the courtroom anymore. The judge's lips were still moving, the defendant's attorney shaking his client's hand, but the walls around me blurred, and suddenly, I wasn't here at all.

The drink in my hand. Too sweet. Too bitter. Something wrong.

The room tilting. My body lagging behind my thoughts. 

Hands. Thick fingers pressing into my waist. Hot breath against my neck. The scent of alcohol and something else, something sour, making my stomach turn.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, and I feel lips graze my skin.

I try to move, to step away, but my body doesn't respond the way it should. Everything is slow. Delayed. Wrong. My heart beats too fast, like I've been running, but my limbs are heavy.

No, no, no-

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but my tongue is thick, my words sluggish.

His grip tightens. Nails dig in. "Relax," he whispers, and I feel his hand slide lower, fingers pressing into places they shouldn't be.

Panic flares, violent and overwhelming, but I can't make my arms push him away. My head lolls slightly, like I'm struggling to keep it upright. No one notices.