"This is what you been wantin' the whole time, isn't it, you little slut?" he hisses into my ear, full of laughter, and my eyes flicker open, the world snapping into startlingly sharp focus. The texture of the bricks, flecked with grit and a tiny splatter of blood. My blood, I guess. It looks fresh.

I can remember the stark white of the fiberglass shower floor, right under my face. The smell of baby shampoo and the freezing cold water beating down on my back. I can remember how I didn't even have a chance to fight back. Not that time. Well, fuck that.

The world's going to shit around us, but I've forgotten, and I figure he has too. There are hands groping at my waistband, shoving impatiently and tearing at my clothes and I shove back, using the wall for leverage, as hard as I can. Kicking and clawing and snarling and sobbing until his knee connects with the small of my back and the air's choked out of my lungs, and he's just so fucking big, one arm clamped around my throat and the other working at his own zipper, it seems like there's no point.

Please, God. I just wanna go home.