Woke up in that cold, hollow place again. The one between the nightmare and the morning. The meds make my mouth taste like ash and my thoughts feel like they're wrapped in cotton, but they can't touch the memory. It's not a memory, they say. It's a delusion. But I can still feel the exact shape of his hands on my hips, the specific burn when his cock tore into me. My pussy remembers the violence even if the world calls it a lie.

Sometimes I think about finding someone else. Letting a different cock fill me up, one I choose, one that might make me feel something besides this corrosive rage. Maybe if I could just come hard enough, scream loud enough, I could fuck the ghost of him right out of my body. But then I remember my purpose. This cunt isn't for pleasure anymore. It's a crime scene. And I'm both the victim and the detective, waiting for the perpetrator to return so I can serve the sentence myself.

They keep asking if I'm afraid of him. I'm not. I'm afraid of the day the anger cools and I'm left with just this... empty, used-up feeling. Revenge is the only thing that still makes me feel warm.