[Ararria]

"Crash and Burn"

You'd think a person would remember the second time they were raped. I mean, the first time, sure maybe someone spiked your drink or something. But your second time? Definitely should be aware of it. It's the moment that defines you after being a victim. You either fight desperately, swearing you will never let a man hurt you again. Or maybe you try to, but that first rape unleashed something inside you and your inner whore is free now and you completely submit. At least those would be dramatic. Entertaining to the reader.

I didn't even know I had been until I woke up the next day. November 1st.

Let me rewind a bit to the "party" Teddy had had for Halloween. Not any kind of "sexy" Halloween party. Just some of his friends, some of his buyers, and few others were there outside and in our shitty home. While he grilled, they drank, smoked, or did some blow. Like most of the time, I'd mostly avoided anyone other than to get a fifth to nurse while I vegged to Netflix till I fell asleep. By all accounts, the party was a complete success. Teddy kept everyone happy with food, liquor, or drugs. Mom managed to not get totally blitzed until the late hours, and everyone had fun, made out, played some poker, and just enjoyed each others company.

And, at some point during that, someone decided that they would enjoy my blackout drunk body's company. Whoever they were, they didn't seem to want to damage me. But I woke up and though hungover, I knew something was wrong.

The first tipoff was that I was at the base of the bed with my legs hanging off. This is not, nor has it ever been, the way I slept, even drunk. The ache in my pussy was the next hint, as I raised up and saw my sweats and panties were around my knees. Someone had wanted my 14 year old pussy and had taken it. I'd like to say when I felt down there and saw the dried cum, and the stain on the bed, I cried. Or I got angry. I didn't do any of that. I wish I had of. If I had reacted in any healthy or normal way, maybe things would have turned out different. Instead, I touched it, felt the mess still in me, and my scars, and laughed. Nothing big, not psychotically, just a chuckle. Who wouldn't have laughed? If I'd had a gun, I would have killed myself right there. If I wasn't terrified of knives, I might have tried a different vertical cut. But I didn't. I was too empty. There was nothing there. So I sat there for some half hour or so, just rubbing myself. Not really sexually, just feeling the scars inside my cunt, smearing the cum in me. And then I stood up. I don't know why. I didn't have a plan or anything. And I went out. It was just turning into morning, and those who worked normal jobs, well, they were at or heading to work or at least waking up. The kids, they were waiting for the bus, pissed about the start of the week. Going to school that Monday, it didn't even occur to me. I had slippers, some ratty sweatpants and dirty pair of panties, a pussy full of cum, and a tshirt so faded I had no idea what was originally printed on it.

On some level though, I did have a goal in mind. My internal GPS had a destination. Why I was going there though, I don't know. I hadn't stepped into that slim batch of woods behind our trailer park since the rape a few months ago. Now? I was rushing into it. The world spun some as I had drunk way too much last night, but I knew my destination. I found the general area easy enough. Not that it was that big of a woods, but it was the only clearish spot off the short trail. I simply paced around, an anger building up in me finally. Here, here is the point in the story where the heroine screams in fury and swears revenge, right?

Sorry, this isn't one of those stories. I instead started to hyperventilate. I staggered, almost growling as i grabbed at small trees and bushes and branches and ripped at them, tearing them free, throwing them down, ruining anything I could get my hands on, including my own hands. I didn't care as I scratched them as I tore at anything I could get my hands on, finally stumbling against a tree on the edge of the clearing. I clung to it for a moment, then slammed my fist into it as hard as I could. I jerked my hand back, in pain, knuckles bleeding, screaming "Fuck" as I punched it again. And again. I stepped back from it, having hurt the tree in no way, shape, or form. My hands though, were bleeding some on the palm and my knuckles had lost some skin and were bleeding a bit more. They hurt. God the hurt was so fucking good. For the first time, as I fell to my knees, crying, not that I knew I was, I felt something. Not emptiness, not hating myself, not wasted.

I felt alive. I knew I was alive. I screamed and hit the tree again, I kicked it and fell down on my ass but even though I was sobbing, I was laughing. I got a broken branch and slammed it against the tree. Again and again until it cracked and splintered, finally just a hunk of wood in my hand as I fell off balance and hit the ground again. I lay on the cold ground, half wild, crying and clinging to the wood in my hands as they bled. I reached down and felt my pussy through my sweats. An urge, a need, bottled up teenage hormones, mixed with pain and release surged through me, I laughed, the bad kind of laugh, the scary kind and rubbed myself and then swung my hand down, swatting my cunt.

Then I made a mistake.

I started to toss the stick aside but I hesitated. I held it in my hand and memories flooded back as I cried more and harder than I had in months. I should have tossed it, or smashed it, or broke it.

I didn't.

I pulled down my sweats and panties and though it was jagged, I shoved it in my pussy and fucked it. I fucked it like I wanted to be torn apart, like I wanted to be destroyed, like i felt I deserved.

Mostly, the pain just reminded me I was still fucking alive. I jabbed the damn thing in me, and I was on fire, mentally, physically. I was already scratching and cutting my tender flesh but nothing mattered except it and the pain. I shoved again and again, crying and making I am sure quite psychotic looks as I did my best to impale myself on the 5-7 inch piece of wood. My pussy was drenched, and not only from blood, as I bucked and quivered against it. In no time flat I felt myself shudder, spasming as I came in the early morning light. I lay there, body still twitching as I "basked" in the afterglow.

But from that high, came the awareness of what I did. I sobbed wildly, as i reached down and pulled the broken stick out of my bleeding pussy. I stared at the blood on it and I felt shame in what I had done. Again, a healthy person, a good person, would have thrown that stick away.

I clung to it. I cried and held the reminder of now not only the day that anything decent about me had died, but as now a reminder that I have fucking lived. That I was alive.

I slowly got up, my crotch burning as I walked back home, my panties ruined from the bleeding as I went back inside the trailer. Mom and Teddy were nowhere to be seen but they were likely asleep. I knew I had injured myself, hated myself for it, but I knew I had to clean myself. I halted as I went past my room. I looked down and I saw I still held that damn stick. I thought a great many things, but about throwing it away, it never occurred to me. I went to my dresser, stashed it, and absently rubbed my bloody pussy. Nothing felt too bad. Just what should be tender skin scratched and cut. I staggered into the bathroom, still rubbing and feeling what might be new scars and feeling different. Not better. There was no "better" about what had just happened. But maybe, that night maybe there hadn't been just a death. Maybe there had been a birth as well.

If I had known of what, I would have killed myself in the tub right then. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

[Ararria]

Thank you again gscmar64.

[vile8r]

Wow, Ararria! What a powerful story! I love your writing style. Very engaging and easy to read. For a first time, this is DAMN good!

[Ararria]

Oh wow. Thank you so much vile8r. Your stories always hit me hard. Just thank you so much for saying that!

[Ararria]

"What I was"

I imagine everyone who gets raped feels guilty. I mean, you have to right? Some other person took hold of you and made you an object to use for their pleasure. They told you, in no uncertain terms, "Fuck you bitch, your holes are mine". So I get that, and understand it fully. You carry that guilt because part of you feels that if you had tried harder, been stronger, they wouldn't have "marked" you as their territory. That's why no matter how scalding hot the water is, you can't get rid of that feeling.

I know, without a doubt, anyone who cums while being raped feels like shit. Again, you have to. Not only did another person violate your body for their pleasure, but some part of you, whether instinctive or primal, felt pleasure as well. It doesn't matter if it was to protect you, by lubricating your cunt. You still came. You still orgasmed. Not only were you marked as territory and used, but they made you enjoy it. I mean, what kind of sick fuck cums while someone is hurting you, treating you as less than human as their cock slides in your bleeding pussy or ass, filling it with their cum. Try finding water hot enough to burn that guilt away.

And what does it say for a person, who can't breathe, being told it will all be over soon, and is in agony and knows, without a doubt they are going to die. And they still cum. What fucking defense or excuse can you have when that is what is happening. You know he's not only going to use you, but dispose of you. Because you're fucking trash. Nothing, just a piece of shit rapebait whore who cums as she is dying? What defense, what rationalization can you bring forward to justify your reactions then? There are none. Part of you still feels like you deserve to die, if you don't. Most of you believes the rapist is right, that you are just a cunt, a thing to use. Because no decent person or woman would feel the way you do, would have done the things you have done.

Three days ago, I was raped again at a party. It wasn't violent or humiliating. At least in the traditional sense. Because I wasn't even awake for it. I had drunk myself into another stupor and passed out and one of Teddy's shitty dope friends had thought, no one will notice. Bitch barely talks to anyone anyway. Well, no one did notice, and likely no one would have cared anyway. That's unfair. There were people who would have cared, but I had pushed them all away. I was a sinking ship and in my own twisted way, despite feeling like I deserved to go down, I didn't want to take them with me. So I pushed them away, I ignored them, hung up on them, yelled at them. Whatever it took. But it wasn't really about protecting them either. Some maybe, but honestly not much. It was mostly about making sure they didn't see their friend was dead and some "thing" had replaced her. I'd rather have been raped 100 times than risk, even for a second, them knowing what a disgusting fuck I was.

Now, now, dear reader, you're probably making excuses at this very moment for my actions. That it was "reasonable" and that people "often react this way" to trauma. Maybe, but I don't fucking care. Why?

Because only a disgusting fuck would have a bloody stick in a drawer beside her bed. After I had gotten out of the tub Monday morning, I had sworn to myself I was going to throw it away. I had cleaned myself off, put cream in my injured pussy and hoped I hadn't gotten an infection or something and headed back to my room. Outside, the sun was coming up, school and work was starting for decent people, and I was sitting beside my bed with the drawer open. Staring at the drawer. In it, wood and blood. In me, anger, lust, and self loathing.

I hated it so much as I reached my hand in and drew it out. Months of being empty. Just so fucking completely empty. And this....thing. It had briefly let me feel alive. I wanted to throw it away, but if I did, I would have been throwing what life I had in me away. I didn't understand it yet, but I needed something that it gave me. Hope? Fuck that noise. I had lost that completely. Happiness? I had drunk any chance of that away. No, it represented the future. Again, at this time, I didn't know any of that. I had instead cradled it and cried in bed. Later that night, after an argument with mom about why I hadn't gone to school, I went back to it. Not to fuck it, no. I was still too hurt for that. I was still applying cream to my injured pussy and had wrapped my hands after cleaning them. Then with it in my hands, I took it to the bathroom, cleaning it a bit.

It was about 6 inches, give or take, and phallic only in the sense it was straight. In all other ways, it looked just like a broken, jagged, branch. I could relate to the broken feeling. But I knew, if I ever decided to use it again, I had to fix it. I grabbed some sandpaper and one of Teddy's knives and started cleaning it. Shaving off the bark, smoothing the jaggies. Don't get the mental image of me carving a wooden dildo. That wasn't what I was trying to do. I wasn't planning on polishing it. Fuck, I barely had any plan. I just blunted the jaggies and smoothed away rough bark. Fucking it would still hurt. But it wouldn't likely make me bleed unless I went crazy. Ha. "Went crazy". I think once you start fixing a piece of wood to fuck, you're not allowed to think or talk about going crazy. You probably have already moved in and just not realized it.

After fidgeting with it for a couple days, I came home. Teddy was gone, mom was working. I was alone. I was "healed" enough. I wanted to see if I could feel something again. Just anything that reminded me I was still fucking alive. Something to fill that emptiness. School had just...existed all Wednesday and I was home. And I was back beside the bed again, cradling the stick like it was a baby. Like it was something special. I sure as hell knew I wasn't special. I hated myself so much for wanting that stick. It represented everything I had lost. But as I stood up, heading to the bathroom, that hatred just enhanced that primal pathetic need inside me. I knew what I wanted, heading into the bathroom. It had everything I needed. Baby oil. Triple antibiotic cream. Bandages. A shower to wash off any blood. I avoided the fucking mirror though. I knew what I was planning and the last thing I wanted to see was that dead eyed bitch looking back at me and judging.

No, instead I stripped. I ran my hands along my ruined nipple, down to the two long scars on my stomach. I then bent over the counter, so the bitch couldn't see me, and I spread my legs and felt the small scars along my lips, moaning as I pushed two fingers in my already soaked pussy and felt the scars along my vaginal walls. I started to cry, hating myself so much as I fingered myself roughly, while my other hand flipped the cap up on the baby oil. I pulled my fingers out easily and though I was soaked, I still had no plans to seriously injure myself. I just wanted, no scratch that, I fucking needed to hurt. I poured the baby oil into my cupped right hand and slathered it on and in my pussy, pumping my fingers in furiously. I grunted animalistically as my fingers pumped inside me, my left hand grabbing the stick. I pressed my face to the cold counter and screamed as I shoved in one thrust the modified stick inside me. Its rough edges still hurt and grabbed at my tender skin, but no longer tore. It was still painfully unyielding, but it no longer ripped me. And though I did start to bleed, likely from not being fully healed up from Monday, it was minor. I panted and growled as i shoved it in me again and again, as deep as it would go. Crying and sobbing and bucking like a bronco, raping myself. In my mind, I was in the woods again. In my mind, he was ruining me as I humped that stick.

My oily right hand started fingering my ass. I had never really done any butt play before the rape, but it felt right. A piece of shit whore needed her ass to hurt  I thought, my mind racing, lost, hysterical. I fingered it as i pushed the stick in again and again. It wasn't enough though, I needed more, so I pulled out that stick and shoved it against my ass, screaming in pain as it fought my sphincter. My ring had never really recovered from what the rapist had done with the stick, so it wasn't too hard a struggle but the pain was real. The hurt was so good, I was lost in myself. Pumping it, wanting to feel. I was so far away from reality that I hadn't heard anything in the trailer. I hadn't heard its door open. I hadn't heard anyone step in. And while I was screaming, I hadn't heard someone mutter my name.

I did hear the bathroom door get kicked in as it flew open, barely missing me. I jerked up and watch in terror as Teddy stared at me shoving a stick up my ass, half wild as my worst fear came true. Teddy, standing there, seeing me for what I was.

So powerful your description of what's going on in your mind is absolutely fantastic, the despair you describe make me pity you  more!

I hope Teddy and his friends decide to hurt her right!

[Ararria]

"Disgusted"

I imagine, for most people, there comes a time when someone finds out their darkest secret. A friend, a lover, an enemy. I imagine sometimes it's a horrible thing that causes more loss. Sometimes maybe it makes their bond stronger. But it must always be painful and intense. Naked in a way most people ever are. Exposed.

Holy hell, was I exposed. Maybe if it had been Tabitha, trying to reach me one last time. Or Justine. Or my mom coming home drunk early after being fired from another job. Maybe then, things would have been better. Anyone but Teddy. He'd never liked me. At best tolerated me and since my rape and subsequent spiral down the toilet, it'd just gotten worse.

Like a deer, startled by a strange sound, I stood there frozen. It was probably a fraction of a second, but to me, it might as well have been hours. My hands, ass, and pussy shiny with oil, 3 fingers deep in my pussy, and a hand shoving a stick in my ass. Exposed indeed. "God No" must have been about the most focused thought in my terrified brain. I don't have words to convey how much I hated and was disgusted at myself. Practically every day since the rape I had hated myself for not being dead and only twice, in the past few days, had I felt remotely alive. But that had brought a far different hate to myself. And here was my most shameful moment on display in front of the person who liked and cared for me the least.

Now, if this was a "hot" porno story, he'd have whipped out his cock and told me "I've got something bigger than you need baby" or something like that. He'd have a conveniently huge 10 in cock, and fucked my brains out. He'd have touched and used me in all the right ways to make me realize what I was missing and perfectly fill that hole, pun intended. Instead, I heard the most terrifying words I could imagine since "Relax, it'll all be over soon".

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

It was a knife sliding though my self-worth. Finally snapping to reality, I grunted as I pulled the stick out and stood, sobbing hysterically, whimpering trying to explain, as if I could put the words out there to make him understand or even make him want to understand. I wasn't even making sense, and as I stepped towards him, my face exploded in pain.

"Stay away from me you sick fuck! Is that a stick? You're fucking yourself with a stick?" he said. The look of hate mixed with disgusted burned away any remnants I had of a soul. I just wailed, holding my face where he had slapped me, dazed, still barely making sense as I talked.

"Please.........god..I...don't..I...you don't.....god...," I muttered, as a thousand different thoughts ran through my head. A dozen explanations tried to flow from my mouth at once as I stood there trembling, desperate to turn the situation around. If I could only make him understand, things could be alright. Better. I just had to understand. Except I wasn't calm, and Teddy had to do about the one thing to make things worse and in a way that he couldn't understand.

He tried to take the stick. Even after I had pulled it out of me, my left hand had clung to it. Holding it. It was safety. And he grabbed it and jerked it out of my hands.

"What the fuck is this. Are you fucking crazy you stupid shit!" he screamed. Rarely do people encounter in their lives a person who looks at them and sees nothing worthwhile. Maybe an ex from a bad breakup or a friend you failed in your time of need. Maybe a family member who gives up after trying to get you off drugs for the last time. But it should be rare. In a few short months, two men have looked at me as if I was complete shit. Worthless in every way. And maybe they were right to. But I wasn't coherent enough to be thinking that now. I just screamed and jumped at him and my stick.

Now, up to this point, I haven't really described Teddy. He was about 6', and while not heavy, he was broad. Maybe 190-200 lbs tops. Myself, on the other hand, in the past 3 months had gained weight, mostly from the drinking and just laying around. 140ish probably, chest and belly was where most of it had ended up. Still, at 5'4", I was significantly smaller than him. But I didn't care. He had just taken the only thing in my life that mattered at all. Pathetic huh?

So I flew at him and to my credit, I surprised him. I knocked him back and the stick went flying from hand. I was wild. I hit him in the face and my hands hurt from where I had punched the tree and tore the skin on my knuckles, not to mention the jaw itself telling my fist, "No". I pulled my hand back, yelping in pain, lost in that feeling and distracted by looking for the stick on the floor. If I had paid attention to Teddy, the outcome would have been the same but at least I'd have been prepared. Instead I looked up just to feel hit fist connect with my left eye and send me flying to the floor. See, in movies you see these small girls fighting much bigger men and holding their own but the truth is, unless you're some massive body builder, guys are much, much stronger than you. I was crazy and had hit him and barely stunned him, mostly by surprise, for half a second. His punch had exploded my face in pain and sent me hard to the floor, dazed. My head bounced off the carpet as I slid to a stop. Teddy, however was furious now and had no intention on stopping. He kicked me once, twice on the floor as I tried to curl up, screaming at me.

"Stupid fucking piece of shit bitch. Hit me! Hit me! Crazy fucking shit!" he screamed as he bent over me and hit me, again and again. My gut exploded in pain, my right cheek bruised instantly as his punch to it drove my left to the floor. Hit after hit. I was screaming in pain, jerking with each blow. I was screaming, and moaning. Suddenly the pain eased, and laying there I looked up at him, my left eye already swelling shut.

"You're getting off on this? You're fucking crazy!" he said, disgusted.

I didn't know what he meant until I followed his gaze with my good eye. I realized then why I'd been moaning. I had fingers in myself. I had, at some point during my beating, just curling up and started fingering myself. I froze again as that realization hit me. I hurt all over, I was exposed raw, and I was fingering myself. I didn't know why. But just like earlier in the bathroom, there was something primal in me that was sparked again and I leaned up kissed him. Kissed Teddy. I didn't like him. Most of me would never want him. But those were the leftover shreds of the girl who had died. I kissed him hard. Felt him respond. Felt his strong hands hold my chest as he suddenly threw me away from him. He was still looking at me with disgust. But I think there was some disgust for him as well. Along with need.

He slapped me hard and spun me around, telling me to get on my fucking hands and knees. I trembled as I did so, actually fucking eager for this. Again - you have to understand my mental state. This wasn't anything I wanted. It was completely about addressing a need. It was a sad pathetic need, but it was more urgent than anything I'd ever imagined. Was this what meth users felt like? A need for something so bad that nothing else in the world matters? I didn't care then, I just moaned as heat filled my cunt in one thrust as he mounted me. I could actually feel him trembling as he pounded in me, my knees sliding just a bit with each thrust. I started to speak, to beg him to fuck me harder when my head exploded in pain and upper body slumped to the floor. If I could have focused, I'd have realized he'd punched me in the back of the head. But I was in pain masked in a sea of confusion as he pounded my cunt. I vaguely was aware of him cussing and yelling at me. I heard fragments of words. "Cunt", "sick bitch", somewhere in that was a "Fucking hate you", and a "why couldn't you have disappeared" but honestly that might have only been a thought running through my own damaged mind.

Fists flew along my back, my sides, my hair was pulled so hard I screamed, he his cock slid in and out of my scarred vagina. He was pumping in me furiously. I was just in pain from all over when I shuddered, screaming and sobbing, as I squirted on his cock. My pussy leaking my juices as I spasmed without control.

"You fucking disgust me," Teddy said, as he sped up, fucking me now flat on the floor, spread wide as he reamed my cunt with his cock. I felt one more hit to my head and then heard him grunting as he filled my cunt with his cum. All I could do was lay there, the room spinning, almost about to puke as he came in me. Then a sudden grunt of pain as he pushed off me, using my back, and stood up. I heard his zipper pull back up. Then I was flipped over, and I looked at him, still half wild. My body was a mess of bruises and pain. My left eye swollen shut, my cheeks red, one turning purple. He pulled his fist back and it trembled and I don't know what I wanted more. Him to beat me or to stop. I'm not sure he knew any better. While he had fucked me, it had been much more a beating. He then threw me down again.

"Get yourself cleaned up you stupid sack of shit", he said. Again, the disgust in his voice was palpable. But slowly, reality began to seep back in. His disgust was nothing next to what I was starting to feel as the world returned. It took 3 tries for me to stand up, and I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up. Heaving into it as the everything came back into focus. I didn't even bother to rinse out my mouth. I just staggered back into the hall and got my stick, crying. It was the cry of a small child, hurt by the world as I cradled it and went to my bed, cum leaking down my legs. I didn't care about cleaning up. I just wanted to know what the fuck was wrong with me. The old hate had returned with a vengeance. I stayed in my room until mom screamed at me ten times for dinner and I finally came out and sat down at the table. Teddy wouldn't even look at me. Mom, already blitzed didn't even notice until about ten minutes into the dinner.

"What the fuck happened to you?" she asked, slurring her words just a bit.

Looking down, unable to even glance in Teddy's direction, I muttered that I had gotten into a fight. She sighed at that. Made that frustrated sound every mom can master, even the shitty ones.

"God damn, you're just one massive fuckup aren't you?" She asked, disgusted at me.

"Yes mom," I muttered. And I knew deep down, both her, Teddy,  and my rapist were all right about me.

No one has spoken about the emotional, physiological experience of life after rape so dramatically like your doing here. Thank you for your bravery  in trying to make a male understand what the outcome can be!

[Ararria]

Thank you, the tone and emotions are pretty accurate. I'm hands shaking scared to write the next chapter. It might be a day or two for it. Then, at least for you pervs out there, it will be more enjoyable for a while.

EDIT: Went through and cleaned up the chapters so far. Next one might take a couple days. Scared to do it. So I fixed errors and grammar instead.

[Ararria]

This chapter is very personal to me. It deals with subject matter that can be very traumatic to people who have had, or still do have, suicidal tendencies or thoughts. This chapter is not meant to, in any way, glorify or promote suicide. If you have suicidal thoughts, please get help. It's terrifying but there are people who care and who can help. If you are struggling, please go to http://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/# or call 1-800-273-8255. People do care and there is hope. Trust me.

EDIT: Cleaned up a bit, still not what I want it to be, but can't do more to it now.

"Suicide"

That night, after taking a bottle of vodka to bed with me, I laid in the bed. I still hadn't showered, or cleaned myself. Teddy's cum was still in me, dried along the side of my leg and in my cunt. The state of my mind as I was there would have been hard to explain. I was beyond tired. I was beyond numb. I had been so angry at first. At Teddy, at myself, at life. I had cradled that damned stick like a life vest in a roaring sea. My mind was a jumbled mess. I was still heavily nauseous, likely having another concussion from the beating/fucking I had received. I just wanted to make sense of it. Find some way to understand how I had acted. But I couldn't so I had cried and slept until dinner. Then mom had berated me and I was so fucking pathetic.

You'd think the final breaking of a person would be dramatic. That it would be huge, something to be in awe of. It wasn't even a whimper for me. When my mom, the alcoholic wonder, had called me massive fuckup, I just gave up. You'd think after all I'd been through so far, that wouldn't have fazed me much. But after whatever you would call what Teddy and I had done, I was hanging by a thread. There I was, my left eye swollen shut, black and blue, and she didn't even notice for like ten minutes. And when I offered her a weak excuse, she didn't even pry. She didn't even ask about it. She didn't notice that Teddy didn't want to look at me nor me him. No, she didn't notice any of that. Because she didn't care. And after what she said, I didn't either. I was just too tired of it all. I barely finished my meal, took some vodka, and hit my room and drank. And drank.

Sometime during the evening, I passed out. Too empty to even cry. Just....hollow. As I slept, my nightmares came as they did most nights. Relieving that first rape. And in it, my death. Most of the time in the dreams I lived, just like reality. But tonight, the dream had ended in my death and yet I hadn't woken up screaming as I usually did. I didn't wake up sobbing. I didn't wake up at all. I slept soundly. Probably one of the few nights of peaceful rest I'd had since that night. It's like I already knew. It was my minds way of saying it was time.

I woke the next morning, when mom tried to get me to school, but I wasn't having any of it. I told her to fuck off, and got back in bed. Teddy was still avoiding me. Not one word had exchanged between us since yesterday afternoon. I didn't blame him. I was disgusted with myself too. I was a walking pile of shit and I had gotten my stink on him. So yeah, he avoided me. Mom gave up without too much of a fight as she headed off to her temp job. Working front desk at some office. She even seemed to be completely sober for once. Teddy had already bolted out, for whatever errands he had to run. So I had the trailer to myself.

I hadn't really planned it like that, for the trailer to be empty, but part of me was glad that it was. It would be better this way. After my dream last night, I knew what my problem was. I simply had never corrected the situation. I was supposed to have died that night. And everything since then had just been a long reminder of that. I just simply had to stop struggling. It really was that simple and I wondered why I hadn't done something before then. I had wished that I had died a thousand times but never had done anything to make it happen. Till now. I had nothing left to give. I didn't want to fight. I didn't want to struggle. I just wanted to go away. Everyone would be happier without me. I truly believed that. I was just a mistake. And it was time to correct it.

I walked back into the bathroom, and started filling the tub with hot water. It was almost scalding but I didn't really care. I even poured in some bubble bath. Looking back, I have no idea why. Habit? Comfort? Who knows why we do things when we are nothing but balls of pain. After running my hand through the hot water, I stood up and walked over to the medicine cabinet. It was full of drugs, both legal and not. Of something sharp, like razors, I didn't even think about. Even before the rape I hadn't liked sharp things and I knew I would chicken out if I tried something like that. It was the blood I couldn't deal with. Even now I hated it. Seeing it. Why a bruise was fine and a cut was not. I don't know. But it was. I looked in the back I finally found some sleeping pills. The bottle was almost completely full and it offered the promise of what I wanted. What I deserved.

To relax, so that it would soon be over.

I took them, heading back into my room as the tub slowly filled. I found the vodka from last night, still mostly full and took it and my phone back into the bathroom with me. I climbed into the tub and the heat hurt in a good way. My skin was red almost instantly but nothing I couldn't handle. Indeed, the warmth quickly felt nice. It was bubbling well, and after another minute I turned off the water. I laid my head back and thought about what I was doing. If I hadn't pushed away my friends, I probably could have reached out to them. But it had been over a month since either had spoken a word to me. I had done too good a job ruining what we had. Go me. I put some music on, just the instrumentals of Les Misérables. I had always enjoyed Schönberg's music and I guess I wanted to hear it one last time. So I soaked in the hot tub, chugging away at the fifth and sometimes playing with and rattling the bottle of pills.

I wish I could say I had second doubts, or worried what others would think. Of who would find me. What my old friends would have thought upon hearing I was dead. But I didn't. I was a selfish cunt who just wanted the pain to end. I couldn't live anymore with the emptiness and what filled that emptiness scared me even more. I knew, deep down, I was beyond saving. I was just fixing a cosmic mistake. God had blinked and missed something. So I started taking the pills 3 at a time, swallowing them with vodka. Just one, two, three, swig. One, two, three, swig. It was easier than I thought it would be and I just wanted to slip away. Lean back and just cease to exist. I half wondered as I was getting fuzzy, from the drink and the pills, if I would drown. Would I fall asleep and slide down and that finish me? It honestly didn't matter. I didn't matter. I was a colossal fuck-up and it was time for me to go. I swallowed the last of the pills, closed my eyes, said goodbye. And went to sleep.

[vile8r]

Wow! Powerful! Powerful and intense! And evocative!

Ararria, you have told a story like no other. The first person POV makes it all the more intense. I loved every word, every sentence, of this incredible story. Thank you for sharing this with us.

Of all the stories written here, this one  should be made a mandatory must read before being allowed to continue on. Such powerful imagery and emotions presented that this site rarely ever gets the chance to see. Thank you for sharing this gift of courage and understanding!

[Ararria]

Thank you both. I'm not entirely happy with that chapter myself. Is hard to write and to find the right words. I don't think my story should be mandatory in any way though. Many people happily and safely enjoy these fantasies. I'm just bringing a different perspective. Is not better, just different. I am glad u guys are enjoying it.
'

[Brittanyishere]

That is a very impressive story. You certainly have writing talent. Thank you I enjoyed it.