June – POV
I knew he'd make it last longer.
He always did when I angered him.
When I cried too soon. When I didn't moan the way he liked. When my eyes stayed shut, or worse, when they didn't.
So I lay there.
Still.
Counting the seconds in my head like it might make it go faster. Like if I hit a certain number, it would end.
But it didn't.
Not for a long time.
By the time he groaned and stilled, the nausea had crept all the way up my throat. I turned my face into the pillow so I wouldn't scream.
When he left, I didn't move.
Not right away.
I stared at the ceiling, the slow whir of the fan, the shadow it cast like a blade spinning round and round. My arms were heavy. My legs felt like they didn't belong to me.
I peeled myself off the bed.
My skin felt wrong—crawling. Every inch of it coated in filth I couldn't name.
I walked to the bathroom, legs stiff like I was made of glass.
This time I didn't stand in the shower.
This time I filled the bathtub.
