As the moon began to rust
Its vapor had lingered on his worn out leather jacket.
Nearly fainting, she’d stopped struggling and just let it happen: in the silent hope, he would climb off of her, and she would just be able forget it. She had: not repressed, not processed, but forgotten about it. Forgotten things, however, aren’t forever gone: they have a way of returning to you. Sights, smells, sounds. Every single sense can conjure up a memory, and then the pictures would build up in front of you again, like an angry giant.
‘That has to have been traumatizing,’ Helen would be told. ‘Not really,’ she would only answer, because she didn't want to be traumatized.
Hot Chapters