one shots

shorty swing my way [12]

january 1999
wednesday
8:30 p.m.

"What the hell is this bullshit?" I tossed the jar at him.
He caught it in his hands and glanced down at it briefly before placing it on the coffee table.

"You seem upset," he gazed up at me, his shades sitting on his face as he leaned back against the cushioning of the sofa.

He had just gotten home from wherever the hell he goes on a regular basis, and I wasted no time getting on his case. I've been sitting at home for the past two days, so I've had plenty of time to figure out how to confront him and gather more information on GHB. With that information, I came to the conclusion that he used the drug that night that I couldn't keep my balance or see clearly.

I didn't want to accuse him of sexually assaulting me on top of that because he had no reason to do so. If he wanted some, he knows that I'd be more than happy to give him some. . . but how could I truly know what he did and didn't do while I was unconscious?

"You damn right I'm fuckin' upset, DeAndré! Are you out of your mind?" I shouted.
"Why are you so upset?" he was nonchalant, and it was starting to add fuel to my fire.

"Because you fuckin' drugged me! You-you used this bullshit to knock me out, and—"
"You needed to sleep. Its purpose is to aid narcolepsy, but it also has the capacity to help people sleep for up to seven or eight hours, which is the appropriate amount for every person," he calmly explained.

I stared at him in disbelief.
"So, the fact that I hadn't slept justifies the fact that you put this in my drink?" I asked him.
"Yes," he answered plainly.

"No, it doesn't!" I was furious.

I took a moment to breathe. I closed my eyes because the longer I looked at him, the angrier I became.

"Look, I'm sorry that you're upset, shorty. I should've at least told you," he broke the silence between us.
"You're sorry that I'm upset, not that you fuckin' roofied me?" I looked at him again, debating on pulling him up and throwing him onto the coffee table like he did Deon.

"You wouldn't have taken it voluntarily. You wouldn't have even taken some fuckin' Nyquil, if I asked you to," he replied.
"Okay, but that's my choice, DeAndré! It's my body, and I should be able to have full jurisdiction over whether or not I sleep or fuck or work or shower or anything!" my voice raised again.

"I can't believe you did some shit like this. How am I supposed to trust you now?" I asked.
"You're blowing this completely out of porportion, shorty. You know I would never hurt you," he shook his head.
"Do I really know that?" I asked.

It was quiet as he peered up at me with those dark ass glasses on his face.

"D. . . when you put that stuff in my drink and you took me upstairs and. . . you laid me down. . . was that all you did?" I asked.
"Nay—"
"Yes or no?" I could feel tears being summoned to my eyes.

"Yes, that's all I did, Renée! You think I fuckin' date raped you?" his voice began to raise.
I remained quiet, only sniffling once my tears had fallen.

"Renée, I would never do no shit like that to you. You know me. . . I'm your man, shorty. I'm supposed to protect you," he began to stand up.
"Yeah, supposed to! What are you protecting me from when you're knocking me unconscious?" I asked as he approached me.
"Yourself!" he barked, making me jump a little.

He took a deep sigh before sliding his shades off of his face. He tossed them toward the sofa and placed his hands on my shoulders. Slowly, his hands moved up and down my upper arms as if he were helping me keep warm. The subtle touch soothed my fury a bit.