Did I love him? Yes. Once I had. Now I was unsure. Something inside me was breaking into pieces. The pieces were too small to be put together again. I felt my stomach churning when I thought of him. The image that came to me was of his inebriated self. High and happy – we had joked. It seemed a cruel one now.
Once I had cherished his touch. It gave rise to countless emotions within me. Now, the emotions were still countless but of a different nature. I recoiled when I thought of him touching me. He had claimed me. I was his property. Or so he thought.
I could feel him on my skin and I fought a wave of nausea. The sun had once been bright and warm. The nights were full of poetry and mystery. Now it all seemed farce. The universe conspired, not to give what you wanted but to extract what little you had left in you.
But then again, why did I blame something external to me? Was it not my fault all along? I had let him on in the past. If, then, I had refused this one time, why would he take it seriously? I had once read somewhere, ‘when a girl says no, it means a no.’ I smiled sardonically. The saying meant nothing.
Would I call it rape? I could not, could I? I had loved him once. Something inside me was weeping. I could feel it on my face too. Why were tears salty? I could feel the warm flow on my fingers. I could see everything turn dark.
White. And red. The pristine white bed sheet. And the red blood on it. My blood.
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