TW: Picking at the wound, part two.

Right now I seem to be picking at the wound again. Maybe there’s a reason behind this. Maybe I want to cleanse myself before going to America again to see J, or maybe it’s just the poison coming out.

At any rate, the urge is there. I keep wanting to talk about what happened to me with my ex. And now I realise I have this inside me and it must be fuelling my dreams, because last night I dreamt I was possessed by an evil spirit and I couldn’t tell anyone because it made me silent every time I tried. I think part of this is my terror of the voices of the dark passenger, taking me over and running my life and my body again, but I think there’s another dimension to this.

Here comes the part with the Trigger Warning, I’m afraid. I might get graphic. I will try not to, but I think I need to write this or it will sit in my head and make things worse.

I was still eighteen, I think (Correction: I went back along the timelines- I was seventeen. Fuck.). I was young still, and two years in his thrall. I was that kid who was starting to act strangely although no-one knew why, and I was beginning to isolate from my old friends and family far worse than ever before. I was living in London, then, at my second dance school, and I was excited to be there, loving the life, my new friends, the dancing and the teachers. My ex had started his first year of University. Life was good.

The first time we had sex was weird. I felt good, but I felt like something was wrong. I’m not sure what part of my head was alerting me to danger, but it all became real later on in the year for me.

I should have run then. I should have vanished away from him, called the police, but I didn’t know what had happened to me was wrong. I thought it was my fault for not telling him I was frightened, but he left me no choice.

We were in his room at the university halls of residence, and we’d been messing about for a little bit. I was in nothing but my underwear, and he was in nothing at all. At first I thought it would be the usual routine, ending with that glow I was getting familiar with and the feeling of rightness that he managed to make me feel, but something changed that day. Something stopped me relaxing and enjoying myself, and started making me feel like I was a whore- a performing whore, doing cheap tricks for her master and chasing for scraps.

He decided to get a bit kinky, but I began having mixed feelings from the word go. I used to like a little bit of being tied up, but this was different.

There were no handcuffs to bind me to the spot. There was just his voice.


“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

I blinked at his tone.

“What do you mean-”

“Shut it. Do as I say. Get on your knees beside the bed.”

I tried to laugh, but I found the sound came out weak and pathetic. His eyes pinned me to the spot.

“Don’t make me ask you again, slave. Do it.”

So I did. At this point I was losing my edge and starting to actually become quite scared.

“Koi-chan, what are you doing? I’m not sure I like this.”

“Touch, bitch. Now you’d better use your mouth on me properly this time. No excuses like last time.”

Suddenly I realised I was almost totally naked and prayed that he would forget, but-

“Oh yes, slave, and take off those knickers too.”

Then after that I was helpless. I felt suddenly that everything I’d ever been warned against was about to happen to me.

I remember that his hands never touched me to start with, but his voice was like steel. I gagged so many times. Tears were running constantly down my face, and I was genuinely terrified.

“What do you call that? I’m not feeling anything.”

“Don’t you dare use your teeth!”

“What the fuck? C’mon, do it better.”

“I can’t believe how bad you are. Maybe I’d better show you what to do.”

So he grabbed fistfuls of my long hair and shoved my face down as hard as he could. Repeatedly.

I was nearly sick. My throat ached so badly and I choked, trying not to breathe in my own saliva. I was really honestly crying, had been for a while, and I was shaking and my hands were wrapped into the sheet and it was just too much and-

I let a sob out along with a gasp for air when he let go, but he told me to get down there and finish him off. I tried to obey but my lips trembled, and I sobbed again, louder, and suddenly another escaped me.

Then he fucking noticed how goddamn frightened I was. I was in pain. My lips stung, my knees hurt and my throat felt wrong. I was crying and clear snot streamed down my face and I was trembling. I sobbed so hard I thought I was going to break.

“What is it? Get on with it.”

He hadn’t heard!? He hadn’t seen?!

I raised my head and suddenly the mask was back on as he saw my face.

“Oh no, oh my god… why are you crying?”

After that it was all hugs and kisses and apologies. That was the last time I heard him apologise. The incident was framed as an ‘oh-god-I’m-sorry-I’ll-never-do-it-again’ type thing, and for weeks the honeymoon phase was back on.

He’d slipped, and revealed his true self too early. And what an ugly, horrible, psychopathic self it was.

There’s a hard lump in my throat writing this and I just want to grab J and cry for a bit. I know I should have left this to the psychologist, but it’s been digging holes in my head and it needed to come out. I buried it and let him tell me lies about how it was bad sex and he hadn’t noticed, but FOR FUCK’S SAKE I WAS CRYING. I WAS TERRIFIED. I ASKED HIM NOT TO AND HE MADE ME ANYWAY.

This shit used to keep me awake, and I hope that it won’t tonight. I have some grounding objects and a sleeping puppy with me, and I’m going to find something to watch to take my mind off this for now. In a way, I’m glad I aired this. I needed just to write about the bad shit for once, even though life has been treating me kindly of late. Lots of family time, time with J, and my puppy, and a dance summer-school I’ve been to. However, this memory has been floating to the surface and leaving me uneasy for quite some time… and it needed examining then throwing away to sink again for a while.

Thank you for sticking by me. x


2 comments on “TW: Picking at the wound, part two.

  1. That was intense. I’m so glad you wrote it out, even though it was hard to read. I hope it helped you purge. xo

    • It was very tough and I cried after, but I needed to do it. I do feel a little better for getting it out there. I realised whilst writing it just how young I was- I actually think I was seventeen at the time 😦 xx

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