Mostly she remembers the quiet,
the sound of her own heartbeat.
How she stopped resisting,
let the tide pull her under.
Submission.
Fingers curled into the sheets,
knuckles white,
breath caught between
a sob and a scream.
Powerless.
Some nights
she still feels him.
That prickly feeling
on the back of her neck.
A shadow behind the door,
hot breath against her skin,
a ghost with a name she knows.
When she wakes,
the dream lingers,
clinging like damp air,
like cold hands
that will never
let go.
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