Dylan (18+) [ON HOLD]

chapter eight: M E M O R Y

tw: sexual assault

Gabby

. . .

I'd never given much thought as to how I'd find out who hurt me that night.

Quite frankly, I had unspoken plans to avoid such information.

Not sure how I expected to put the bad guys behind bars but, I guess wanting a bad guy caught, and finding out the bad guy is someone who was in my apartment are two radically different situations.

Charisma managed to drag me out of the mall, crying like a teething infant. 

And even then, outside of the mall, situated firmly in the car, curled on my side on the backseat, Chapa laying beside me, having nuzzled her way into my arms, pushing against my chest, her rhythmic breathing helping me calm down, I still struggle to breathe.

So many memories from that night flashed through me, at the forefront of my mind and impossible to ignore.

Charisma gave up on consoling me and climbed in the front seat, starting the car. Her tone became stern as she began asking me questions.

But, I can't hear her, as scenes from that night hit me smack in the face.

. . .

"I wan ma sisher," I had sobbed. The stench of cigarettes and paint thinner is heavy in the air, the tequila on my own breath nauseating to my own nostrils.

The voice that had at once felt disembodied now has a face that goes with it, though it still doesn't seem to match. "We got you, Gabs," the voice mutters, his quiet voice somehow unable to hide his giddiness. 

I'd thought I'd blacked out, but it seems as if until now, I'd disassociated myself from what happened. 

Missing time that was once filled with unwritten records of what happened to me returns in pieces. 

"Grab her."

Calloused hands help Victor take me out of the car, and carry me away. I'm not easy for them to hold, though they still hardly struggle.

Someone's not pulling their weight and my head tips backward, and I can feel my blood rush backward as though I'm suffocating.

"Put her on the mattress."

The voice of the other man responds, but nothing rings a bell or is audible enough for me to take a guess. 

I hit an old mattress, smells of piss and stale sex clinging to it. The springs are busted in some areas and poke me in my side, and the back of my leg.

"Strip her."

I cry once again for myself, remembering how I hadn't been able to move, when in my peripheral, an arm appears. Its wrist is dainty, but its forearm jiggles with movement, and it's fingers are thick, though with half-inch long, pristine nails.

It scratches at something, hard, breaking off some of the nails on it.

My throat closes in on itself, choking on a gasp, realizing that in all my weakness, I'd still tried to fight.