I didn't want to open my eyes. The sight of him made me sick. I hated his short, hairy legs. I hated his eyes. They looked at me with sadness, but sadness couldn't hide the evil that stared at me. I hated the way they looked hollow and dark when he took his glasses off. I hated his beard. It scratched my skin when he tried to kiss me. And when he thrusted his lips at mine, hoping i wouldn't run.

I hated his hands the most. His hands radiated with his disgusting desire. Every time he touched me, from the day we first met, i knew something was wrong. Maybe i was just being too "closed off". Thats what my dad always said when i didn't let him hug me. When he touched me, i could see his hands for what they really were. Slimy tentacles, lusting for their prey.

I should have seen it coming, the things his hands did. They hit me. I saw stars and my ears rang. They scratched me. The marks would be there for days. They gripped my throat so tight i could feel my life slipping away as my vision went dark. He released just before i passed out, letting me breathe.

Sometimes i wish he had kept choking me. I wished he had killed me that day, putting an end to my torture.

All the pain and lack of oxygen made me weak. Too weak to try to fight. He was bigger and stronger. And i was just a battered little girl, terrified and trapped. I couldn't get away. And who would hear me if i screamed? We were alone and i was pretty sure he'd keep hurting me if i tried. He restricted my breathing every time i made a sound.

So i just laid there. I closed my eyes, pretending i was dead. I waited for it to be over, trying to **** my mind. I didn't want to feel a thing. I didn't want to be there. If i could somehow slip into death in my head, i wouldn't have to be here anymore. Killing myself in my head was the only escape from my terrible reality.

It was over and he drove me home. He tried to talk to me. He tried to reassure me that everything was okay and i wasn't a bad person.
"Don't feel guilty, he doesn't have to know." He kept talking but i was silent. In an emotionless trance, my face was still and unexpressive. Tears came slowly and silently. They rolled down my stone cheeks, my statue of a face.

What just happened? Did he forget the events of the last hour? Did I?
"Don't feel guilty. He won't know."
Had i just cheated on my boyfriend? What have i done?

He made me think that i was the one to blame. I'm a ****. *****. Disgusting cheater. What did i do? I hate myself. I deserve to die.

I knew the truth. I knew what happened. I knew what he did and i knew how horrible it felt. So how was he able to convince me that this was my fault? Was it because i didn't want to think about that word? ****.

No, i had not been *****. I cheated and I'm a horrible person. He means the world to me and i am a horrible ****. That's what i told myself. And didn't tell anyone else anything about cheating or ****. It's a terrifying word. Once the reality is seen.