turnpike

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If I close my eyes, it's that night again.

I can't find Callie and Ashleigh has long since discovered better entertainment in the form of a glassy-eyed Pi Sig. I'm alone in the writhing sea of bodies, trying to find my bearings as the siren's song of intoxication lures me under.

But when I open my eyes it's back to being seven months after the fact, and the damage is already done. There's no taking it back now. There's no changing fate.

Unlike that night, I eventually spot Callie across the apartment with her sorority sisters, laughing about something I'll never be a part of. This wasn't how it was before, but maybe—just maybe—if she had stayed with me then, things wouldn't have ended the way they did.

I down my drink when Callie waves me over to her and the girls, her smile still as bright and welcoming as the first day we met. She's perfect, she really is, and I know I will never be like her no matter how hard I try. And God, have I tried. Tonight that feeling is unbearable, like the weight of my wretchedness has finally reached the tipping point. She's always been the beautiful one, the happy one, the friendly one, and I've always been the afterthought.

I motion to the hallway, pointing towards the bathroom then holding up a finger to tell her I won't be gone long. She nods understandingly before looking back to her girls, easily slipping into the conversation once again as I slink away.

It's ten minutes to two, and I can't take this anymore.

I shoulder my way through the crowd, brushing past drunk frat boys and their female counterparts. I can feel their eyes on me, judging and weighing, picking and prodding, all of them taking note of the outsider in their midst. I'll never be like them and they know it, and they'll never let me forget it. Neither will he.

There's a line for the bathroom down the hall, but this time I don't hesitate in pushing into his bedroom, eager to be away from the stares. Drunk me is bolder than sober me, though not by much.

The bedroom is blessedly empty and so is the ensuite. I'm quick to relieve myself, keeping my head down to avoid looking at my face in the mirror. I fear that if I meet my own eye I'll see the girl who was lost all those months ago, destroyed in a night that neither she nor I will ever fully remember.

Now it's just bits and pieces that come together at the most inopportune moments, like when his hand grips my throat in a moment of passion, when I sip at a drink that doesn't taste just right, or whenever he murmurs beautiful, you're beautiful in my ear. I'll never escape it until I escape him, but this mock Stockholm syndrome has sunk its claws in deep and refuses to let me go. Even if it does, the blood loss will keep me from crawling far; I will die at his feet with my fingertips outstretched towards freedom, grasping for the light.

But I will never touch it.

The door bangs open just as I'm drying my hands, and when I glance up I'm not surprised to see him standing there. For a moment I wonder if he's simply an apparition, but no, he's all too real.

"Didn't your mother teach you how to knock?" I ask, placing the hand towel down on the counter.

My voice is steady, but my heart is beating hard enough that I think it might try to rip its way out of my chest. I'm both pleased and nervous to see him, but it's the heat low in my belly that betrays me. I don't want to feel it, but I do. I always do.

He takes a step closer, the door falling shut behind him. He doesn't bother to lock it. "My mother is a useless cunt."

His mouth is on mine before I can react, the small of my back pressing painfully against marble counter. He kisses like he's trying to kill me, like he's trying to drag and hold me under until all I can do is gasp when he pulls back again. My chest heaves in a rhythm that rivals his, but he will always have more control than me.