I heard a voice calling out my name from inside the house, and when I opened the door, all that met me was darkness.
The house was cold and empty, remnants of the fire long sooted in the grate, silence oppressive and unwelcome.
The voice called to me from upstairs, and compelled I walked as if in a trance to the first floor.
All the doors were closed bar one, the room which used to be mine.
The years fell away and I was a child again, afraid and alone in the dark at the hands of a stranger.
The smell of stale tobacco and beer was repugnant, his breath fetid and sour, his hands grubby and clumsy.
He hurt me. Shattered my soul into a million pieces, his laughter like a knife in my gut.
I looked down at my clothes, ruined and bloodied.
Reaching under my bed, I found my saviour.
I looked up at him, watched his leery smile change to surprise then a grimace of confusion and pain.
My hands felt warm, wet and sticky.
I watched him sprawled on the floor, gasping and gaping, a grotesque lump of diseased flesh that had no right to live to abuse the innocent. I waited till he breathed his last.
I walked away, stripping off my clothes as I left.
Naked, bruised and battered I walked for miles and eventually found sanctuary.
No questions asked, and I gave no details.
In my dreams I hear a voice calling my name, saying it was sorry.
I answered I was not. Maybe we would both rot in hell.
Written for Fandango’s Story Starter