TARADay breaks, grey and grimy, behind the closed shutters of the guest room. It seeps in thin, sharp blades, and settles on my arms covered in bruises. Memories in violet and blue. Imprints. His. Those of the embrace, the struggle, the possession. I touch them with my fingertips. A dull, familiar ache.I haven't slept. I've watched the light change, from deep black to this washed-out grey. I've listened to the sounds of the house. His heavy footsteps going down to the kitchen. The hiss of the coffee machine. Then nothing more. A strained silence, ready to shatter.My body is a stranger. A territory conquered and ravaged. There is a pain between my thighs, a stinging reminder of the night's savagery. But there is something worse. A residual warmth, a treachery of the nerves, a cellular memory of pleasure stolen within violence. That is what disgusts me the most. My own body, which capitulated, which responded to hatred with a troubled echo.I get up. My muscles scream. I put a robe o
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