Eight Hours Later

Hands touched her. Touched skin. Hands against her chest. Hands against her bare skin.

I hurt.
I know.
Hands on her face. Her mouth being forced open. She tried to push out a scream, but nothing came from her throat. A gag was pulled tight, silencing the screams that wouldn’t come.
Hands on her chest again.
She opened her eyes. Heavy, heavy eyelids. Each had to be a tonne.
The gag was still in her mouth.
She blinked and tried to reach for the gag.
Her hand didn’t move.
She fought a wave of nausea and pulled on her hand again. It moved a little, but then stopped. She twisted her head awkwardly, and looked up at her hand. There was a loop of fabric – silk, it felt like silk – cinched around her wrist and then looped around the bed post. Three more awkward movements of her head, three more limbs secured to the bed.
Tears came, a flood running down her cheeks and into her ears.
She slowly took stock of herself. She fingers and toes still moved, whoever had tied her down had been nice enough to ensure the blood flow hadn’t been cut off.
Every inch of her hurt, and there was wetness between her legs.
Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods.
She screamed against the gag.
No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.
It’s not ok, but you can’t do anything about it. Can you move your hands?
I’m too tired to do anything.
If you don’t’ get free-
She tugged on the bonds. I’m not getting free.