𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕒𝕣𝕜𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕖𝕤 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕃𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 ➀

16 TORRENT

A/N:
The above song is one of my favorite acoustic songs of all time. I love the lyrics, they're perfect for this chapter.

If you don't like dark and messed up stuff the next few chapters are probably not for you.

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Here I am, sobbing like an idiot as I clutch onto Monica's naked body for dear life. Whatever the hell just happened between us or more likely just happened to me, has me completely fucking lost. There's a wall in my brain, one that I've built up nice and high, a giant dam of emotional avoidance. This situation is causing a deep fissure straight through it. Straight through me. I can only imagine the bad shit that's going to happen when it eventually bursts, letting all of the pain surge forward.

"It's okay. You're okay, Sean." Monica murmurs into my neck as she places a seemingly never-ending number of kisses there.

She's been doing this, comforting me, for I don't even know how long. Apparently, it's been enough time for me to go completely flaccid though. Enough time has passed that I've also made her a soaking wet mess and not in the way that I prefer.

My tears stop as I take a few ragged breaths. I'm trying to get myself under some semblance of control again. The numbing sensation the vodka had provided is now gone. The beautifully blissful orgasmic state of pleasure I'd reached has also diminished. I've officially cried every defense mechanism away.

I know it's coming. I know it's about to smack me like a fuck-ton of bricks right in the face at any moment now. I can feel it. I hate feeling things. I'm too restricted, too confined right now. The comforting feeling is gone and now it's like I'm trapped inside of Monica's soft arms. 

A slow chill creeps up my spine, then into my brainstem and finally spreads thoroughly throughout my hippocampus. My eyes snap shut as my memory starts to play like a painful movie reel. I shudder as the images play one, by one, by one, by fucking one. Some people are grateful for their visual memories, not me. 

Ask someone who endured trauma if they like their visual memory, chances are you'll get a resounding fuck no. This is why I don't want to feel things. Because feeling things means having to feel that and oh yes, that and that.

I need to get out of here. I need to go. I need to... I can't breathe. I can't  fucking breathe. I fucking hate this. Jerking my body upwards, I pull my shaking form away from hers. Monica's limbs leave my skin and the moment they do I can feel the hollowness begin to spread throughout me. My breathing accelerates, my heart rate soars, there's even tiny dots that start covering my vision. Funny though, because I'm not really paying attention to anything in the real world.

Memories... There they are, all of them. Images one, two, three and all the other fucking hundred of them. All of them just rapidly searing my line of vision. Stop. Just stop. Stop! Fuck. Just fucking make it stop. But I know nothing will, because I'm just too fucking damaged.

I stumble around the room as I hurriedly try to put my clothes on. All the while, Monica is talking, no, she's yelling, telling me to calm down. If she could only feel the sense of impending doom radiating throughout me she wouldn't be telling me to calm down. If she could only see the things I'm seeing. I shudder just at the thought.

By the time I get my clothes on I'm practically shaking from head to toe. She can't see me like this. I can't let her see me like this. I can't let her see what a fucked-up wreck I truly am. Just fuck this entire situation right now. I'm fucking appalled at myself for letting things get so out of hand.