#parallel

Fifteen months later, and you still flinch when a door opens suddenly. Crowds don’t bother you, but the first time some poor guy tried to hit on you, you burst into tears and nearly threw up on his shoes. The rest of the night was spent trying in vain to convince yourself you weren’t in danger, he was nothing like him.

Your heart wouldn’t calm, the tightness constricting your chest didn’t ease for hours.

The dress you picked for tonight is more understated. A simple black number, not out of place necessarily, just nothing special. Nothing eye-catching. You’re here, under sufference, because you’re trying to be a better friend and because, at some point, you need to try going out and having fun again, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t hoping to blend seamlessly into the crowd, unnoticed and unbothered.

You’ve got a drink, too. Part of you wants to knock it back in a few mouthfuls and go for another – as many as it takes to feel less hunted, less on edge. Numb, maybe. Or just drunk. 

The rest of you – your better sense perhaps – is terrified to risk your guard slipping for even a second. Pink, glittery cocktails aren’t your friend.

But when she’d ordered hers, she’d ordered one for you as well, and when you’d opened your mouth to protest she’d given you that look again, like you were being a drag, a buzzkill, and you’d all but wilted.

“Drink up,” she says decisively, gesturing at your as yet untouched cocktail, “then we’re dancing.”

And you do. 

Or attempt to, at least. Some asshole knocks into your elbow, and the fruity monstrosity you’d intended to sip instead sloshes down your front.

“Shit!” you curse, lurching to your feet. Said asshole doesn’t even notice, stumbling further into the crowd. 

You glance down at your dress in dismay. The black hides the worst of it, but the cold liquid dripping down your chest and into your cleavage is a mess all on its own. “Damn it, I’ll be right back,” you mutter and stalk off in the direction of the bathroom, not waiting for her response.

This has gotta be some sort of sign, right? You didn’t want the stupid drink in the first place, you didn’t wanna go out at all. This is what you get for trying to force it. 

You aren’t the you from before. 

Maybe that’s how it’ll be from now on, a permanent before and after. The bright eyed idiot and the hollowed out wreck. Maybe there’s no fixing… this. What he did and who you became. You sigh miserably, grabbing some paper towels from the dispenser and getting to work blotting up the mess. 

When you emerge from the ladies a few minutes later, you have every intention of going back to your friend and telling her that you’re calling it quits, but when you glance over to where you two were sitting, she’s no longer alone.

The guy standing in your spot is tall and handsome, long black hair half pulled up in a bun. Coldness seeps through you when he turns – just enough to catch your eye, for the corner of his lip to tilt upwards in an almost imperceptible smirk.

“Hey, baby,” a familiar voice coos in your ear.

There’s no time for your heart to skip a beat or your stomach to plummet. 

Satoru’s hand snatches at your bicep with a blistering grip and before you can so much as utter a peep he’s dragging  you back into the bathroom. There’ll be bruises later, and that’s the least of your worries. 

“Did ya miss me?” he asks, and though he’s smiling wide, his eyes – pools of crystalline blue peering at you from behind dark sunglasses – cut colder than ice. He’s furious. 

“L-let me go,” you stammer as he forces you back into a cubicle, and funnily enough he complies, tossing you forward so he can fit in and kick the door closed behind him. “Sa-Satoru–”

He grabs you by the throat and hauls you in for a kiss, “Not now, ‘m busy,” he groans against your mouth, hands already fumbling for his belt buckle, “be a good little slut and lift your skirt for me, yeah? Think I’m gonna die if I don’t feel this pussy squeezing my dick in the next thirty seconds.” 

There were nights you’d convince yourself he’d forgotten you. Where you dared to hope that with distance his interest in chasing after you would wane. There were other women, other men, idle distractions or fixations that’d consume him the way you did. 

You’d spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder for a shadow that wasn’t there.

There’s a deafening roar in your ear as he grabs you by the hips and spins you round, bending you over. You see it play out in your head, the rest of your night going up in flames. It won’t be enough to fuck you in a bathroom stall. 

He’ll take you and he’ll keep you, and this time it’ll be for good. He won't make the same mistake twice.

You can’t go back.

He yanks the seat of your panties aside, your dress already rucked up past your hips. “You haven’t fucked anyone else, have you?” he asks. 

You can’t go back.

You can’t, you can’t, you can’t–

“Get off me.” 

He doesn’t hear you. Two fingers tease at your folds, and you can feel the heat of his body pressing close, caging you in. “If anyone’s touched this pretty little cunt while you’ve been playing keep-away–”

“Get off me!” you shriek, rearing back into him. 

But Satoru’s always been stronger than you, always lorded it over you. He barely stumbles, and you’re rewarded for your paltry effort with a full body slam against the wall of the stall, his warm breath puffing over your hair. 

“Baby, sweetheart, sugarplum,” his voice, light and amused, belies the painful hold he has on your wrist, twisted behind your back.  “You really gonna put up a fight? I’m being real nice right now, all things considered. You don’t wanna push me.”