I’d be on my stomach, his body above mine, looming over me. He’d stuff his hands aggressively between my legs, his fingers vigorously searching for at the time I assumed my clit, however with zero pleasure ever being received on my end, I now find that doubtful. I would laugh. “Ow…” I’d breathe. I’d grab pillows and sheets, in efforts to pull myself out from under him. His hand would push my lower back down, or he’d grab my hair. His words I remember; “Don’t you fucking move.” I again would laugh. Laughter seemed appropriate even though he never laughed. He rarely smiled when we’d fuck. Or when he’d fuck me. I liked the pain and enjoyed the discomfort. I bathed in the sense of danger. And it was okay. I was okay. I had it under control. 
 

I had it under control when he’d drive us high, falling asleep at the wheel of my car. 
I had it under control when I spent over $2,000 on drugs and hotel rooms.
I had it under control when I’d go home covered in bruises. “We liked rough sex...”
I had it under control when he raped me. 
And I had it under control when I offered him another chance. “He’s changed.” 
 

It’s been a year since I last saw him, yet he’ll still call me sometimes. I never hear it ring, but will notice a new voicemail under Blocked messages.

“I dream and think about you every day. I miss you a lot. Be nice to hear from you.”
 

I always press Delete.