I was confused. But at the same time, I understand. I haven't known her for long, but I knew that she was strong; hell, the strongest woman I've ever seen in my life. But I was exposed to a side of her that I had never seen before.
Vulnerability.
The way she looked at me, I knew, I could tell that she saw something in my eyes that I couldn't hide. I was used to her closed off demeanor. I was used to facing her mask, the one that was unrelenting, unforgiving, unwavering. However, there were moments where I saw a genuine side to her. The one that was kind to me. The one that reassured me I was good enough, even in comparison to the large beast of a man with muscles that protruded like benign growths.
Not that I was judging, or jealous, or hostile or anything. Not at all.
But she saw something in my eyes, something that I tried so hard to push back into the recesses of my mind.
Pity.
I tried, but I couldn't fucking push it aside.
But I feel like she didn't understand where it was coming from.
But again, I can't blame her.
But what she couldn't see was the understanding.
I didn't know her pain.
But I knew pain.
The kind that rips your heart from your chest, stomps the bloody mass into the concrete, and attempts to place the wrangled pieces back into the hallow hole in your ribcage. But not correctly. No, instead it's shoved back in there in an angle, upside down, backwards, and eviscerated beyond fucking repair.
I felt a kinship with her that I had never felt before. When she was in my arms, trembling, vulnerable, mewling, I never felt closer to her. I was transported to a time where I felt a loss so deep. I saw young version of myself in her.
With every whimper, with every mewl, with every shudder wracking her body, I saw the glassy expression of death in my parents eyes.
Hit from the side, the car tumbled. Again, and again, and again. I saw blood pooling beneath their limp bodies, I saw their bones broken and splintered in positions that exceeded comprehension. My mother's right arm was broken, completely contorted in a position that was terrifying to witness. I saw severed limbs – my father's right leg was 15 feet away from the wreckage.
And I was the lucky one. The little 8 year old strapped to the backseat was left without a scratch. Left to watch the wreckage. Left to see watch my parents die a slow, agonizing death.
Yes. I was the lucky one.
I found myself in my dorm far too early. I wanted to stay with her longer. I wanted to hold her, I wanted to kiss her, I wanted to transfer any kind of positive energy from my body to hers through touch. Shit, I'm not great with positive energy but fuck, I would give her any that I had.
I reluctantly caught a cab home.
But fucking hell, I wanted to stay. I wanted to be there for her. But she didn't want me.
And I don't blame her.
I wouldn't want me around either.
I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, unable to detect the passage of time.
She was swimming in my head. Her likeness came in and out through blurry visions of soft brown skin and euphoria. She made my body come alive. She made me feel things I had never felt.
Sure, I was a virgin before her.
I could pretend that all sex felt the way she made me feel.
But a deep part of me, one that I wasn't sure I was ready to acknowledge, knew that was a fucking lie.
She made my soul depart from my body, she made every single nerve on my skin erupt in flames. The second I was in her presence, goosebumps freckled my skin like sensual measles.
Fuck.
Does that even make sense?
No, it's fucking gross.
I've been going crazy.
I look into the ceiling and I don't see the speckled white dots. I see her eyes, her irises a hurricane swimming with confidence, deep lust, and the rare iota of vulnerability hidden behind the storm. I see her curvy, voluptuous body flowing and undulating and winding in sensual thirst. I see her skin, cheekbones shinning under the sunlight. I see the rare speck of vulnerability in her eyes. I see the rare smile that stretches across her face, her sparkling teeth.
Fuck.
That must have been the end. I crossed a line and she kicked me out.
I've ruined everything.
It's over.
I release a hearty sigh just as the door opens.
"Yo, how'd the – woah man, you good?"
I don't even look at Oliver as he enters the dorm room and closes the door behind him. I'm still staring at the ceiling as his bag drops on the floor beside his bed. I don't move as he walks through the room, his heavy footsteps making his way toward his own bed.
For a few minutes, there's silence. I lay in bed, the same position I've been in for hours. Oli doesn't speak for that duration, allowing me to bask in my silence.
But of course, Oli being Oli, he has to break the silence.
"Are you okay?" He asks, almost whispers.
I contemplate ignoring him.
But there's so much bubbling under the surface that I have to get something out.
I pause for so long that Oli interjects again.
"Did something happen?"
Damn. When did he get so fucking observant?
"Yeah." I respond, debating whether or not I want to elaborate.
Oli doesn't speak, and I can't determine whether it's because he's giving me space to formulate my thoughts, or if he's trying to figure out what he's going to say next.
"What happened?" He finally asks. I refuse to look at him, not wanting to see the expression on his face. Not having the energy to see the expression on his face.
I sigh, an internal debate wrestling through my head. A ping pong going back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
I felt like I was plucking petals off of flowers; she wants me, she wants me not. She wants me, she wants me not. She wants me...
She wants me not.
"Something happened. She made me leave." I didn't want to elaborate further. I didn't want to expose her and her personal life. I also wasn't comfortable divulging our personal relationship. For the first time in....well, ever, Oli was making an attempt to have a heart to heart – if you could even call it that.
He was silent for a few moments.
Still, I didn't dare look in his direction.
He sighs deeply.
Still, I didn't dare look in his direction.
"Look dude. I don't know what you're going through. Or what's happing with you and the...um...Dominatrix."
He hesitates for another few moments. But surprisingly, he continues.
"But I know that you are one of the greatest people I have ever had the pleasure to meet."
The shock that rushes through my body causes me to finally glance his direction.
He's sitting upright, propped against the headboard with a few pillows, his arms resting in a relaxed position behind his head.
He's not looking at me, rather, he's staring at an indiscernible spot ahead. I follow his eyeline, and I see nothing but the closets across from our beds. I could conclude that he's staring into space. But knowing Oliver, it could be everything in-between.
I don't speak, still taking the time to process his words.
You are one of the greatest people I have ever had the pleasure to meet.
What the fuck does that mean?
Especially because only a week ago he was taunting me, telling me that no one would want me.
I don't speak, because I'm overwhelmed with thoughts of her, and I'm not sure I have the energy to even think about what he means.
But apparently I don't have to.
"I know I've been an asshole to you. I'm not even going to try and justify it, because it would all come up as shitty excuses"
Again, he sighs. But this sigh is so heavy I can feel it. There's a weight behind it.
'"I just want to make sure that you know your worth. Lord knows I've made you question it. But you're a special person. You deserve more than you've been given. I would give you advice, I would give you answers if I could. But I fucking suck at that shit so I'm not even gonna bother,"
Still, I'm rendered speechless.
He sighs again, this one tinged with an odd sense of hopelessness and resolution.
"All I know is that she's a fool for letting you go," He continues an expression of resignation clouding his face.
Finally, he turns so his eyes meet mine. Him leaning against the headboard, his blue eyes boring deep into my soul. I'm still frozen in the same position. Lying back, yet now my eyes are following his, bouncing from iris to iris, seeking for sincerity in his gaze.
And that's all I see.
Sincerity.
How fucking peculiar.
He turns from my gaze and stands, releasing an overly dramatic stretch. "I've gotta go. I've got...um...drinks with friends," I watch with scrutiny as he stands and changes into a pair of dark jeans and a a dark blue sweater. I don't question his antics, it's something I'm used to but...
That being said, I've never heard him speak so candidly. Before I know it, he's gone.
Once again, I'm left to my thoughts.
Blood.
Severed lims.
Broken bones.
A scared, small little boy.
And all I wanted in that moment was for her to touch me. To stroke my hair. To lull me to sleep.
All I wanted in that moment was her.
But I'm scared, so scared that I might have fucked it all up. Because I know what it's like to fear human interaction, and I know what it's like to have your space invaded. She was hurting, and I did what I thought was right. I didn't stop to think that maybe inserting myself into the situation, no matter how much I wanted to be there for her, may have made her unfathomably uncomfortable. I don't know what she's been through. Hell, I might never know because Mistress Valencia is a mystery wrapped in an enigma with a pretty little bow labeled 'don't even fucking think about it'. Still, I should have thought before I acted. I should have considered the fact that her nightmare was a trauma response. I should have realized that inserting myself could have made things far worse.
It's entirely possible that I might never see her again.
And for that, I don't know if I could ever forgive myself.
Hey y'all
It's been a while. I'd apologize but I'm a sadist who enjoys making your horny lil asses wait so I'm not gonna.
I know you were mad at Valencia in the last chapter. I'm not going to try and invalidate your feelings, but remember that trauma is something that follows you for the rest of your life.
Anywhore, storytime (TW):
I was at the bar with my boyfriend, his brother, and his brother's friends. I was having a great time, everything was fine, blah blah blah. The party was gonna continue at our place, but there was this girl drunk out of her mind and even though I didn't know her, I wanted to help her. So I spent over an hour helping her get home. Forced my boyfriend and his brother to help out. She was clearly going through some shit so she wouldn't let any man near her, and clung to me even though her friend was there. Having extensive experience with trauma and PTSD, I comforted her to the best of my ability. She got home safe (puked all over herself and me but it's all good, shit happens)
Fast forward to the next day. I'm told that the people I was hanging out with didn't like me and I made them uncomfortable, and that one never wanted to see me ever again. Someone accused me of sexual assault.
I have experienced SA on many occasions. I didn't remember doing anything inappropriate that night, but having been a victim myself, I'm not about to invalidate anyone's feelings. So I took it all seriously. I scoured my brain to think whether there was something I did to make someone uncomfortable, and I came up with nothing. But PTSD does fucked up shit to you. I convinced myself that I must have done something, must have touched someone in some inappropriate way to make them say that.
Two days passed where I isolated myself and hated myself. I won't get into too much detail, but I was a goddamn wreck.
Then I find out that the person who accused me was someone who saw an interaction I had with this girl and, without asking for clarification, assumed I assaulted her. Let's call her 'Satan', and the girl I was talking to 'Blondie'. I was talking to Blondie, and I was all "dude I never shave and my legs are always smooth, wanna feel?!" and Blondie goes "yeah sure"! so I lift my leggings and place her hand on my thigh. Blondie goes "Wow you lucky bitch!"
End of interaction. Literally. That's all that happened.
Satan saw this and decided to tell people I forced Blondie's hand into my pants. Turns out, Satan saw me being all lovey dovey with MY BOYFRIEND and decided that she hated me just cause she wanted to hop on MY boyfriend's dick. So she did the worst goddamn thing possible and accused me of something so goddamn serious and terrifying as sexual assault.
So while I was helping some stranger on the brink of alcohol poisoning get home safely, this bitch was going around spreading heinous lies about me. Making me out to be the villain. She dug that shit so deep that I started to make myself out to be a villain. All because she was into my boyfriend and was intimidated by the fact that I'm sexy as fuck and confident.
The thing is, this bitch has been plaguing my mind for fucking weeks. I'm now triggered in new ways, in addition to the ways I already was. I'm scared to go out and enjoy myself. I'm now constantly recalling my previous sexual assaults (more so than often) and it's fucking annoying how this mouth breathing cunt managed to do so much fucking damage.
Anyways, I needed to get this off my chest. Thanks for listening. Or if you didn't, that's cool too. Hope this doesn't change how y'all see me. Might take this down later tbh.
Ciao lovelies.