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I am hyperaware of the situation I can feel each heavy thud of er and faster I can feel each of his fingers aroundsure I know that he could

Unbidden and unwanted, an ie of his sculpture comes into my mind: a perfect body with its head squeezed off

My eyes burn “Don’t, ” I whisper, afraid to say ht its way up my throat to my mouth

“I could,” he says “I could I can do whatever I want ”

“ Don’t, ” I plead

“You sing You beco—more beautiful, more perfect ”

His index finger strokes the front of my throat, where my vocal chords are

“ Don’t sing for anyone else,” he orders

I nod o away

His grip tightens around ht leg, and, without re his hands fro me in my own bed

His full weight presses down against me

Tears leak fro into my hair

“You’re mine, ” he whispers

It is a very long time before he leaves, but when he finally does, a part of ht in the blue plastic chair across froers as he looks at me “But, ” he says in a carefully controlled voice, “he didn’t actually do anything?”

For answer, I reerprint-shaped bruises decorate my throat