Page 82 of Before We Were

"No, I'm good," I say quickly, but Claire's sharp elbow and whispered, “Lighten up,” make me waver.

Without waiting for further protest, he thrusts a red cup into my hand. Claire's encouraging nod compels me to sip—the liquid burns, bitter and wrong.

Why do people drink this stuff?

And do they actually enjoy it when they do?

"Just relax and have fun, okay?" she insists before Evan whisks her away.

I want to leave but can't abandon Claire, not with her judgment clouded and vulnerable. I retreat to a couch, wedged beside a couple lost in each other until they sprawl over me, oblivious to my presence.

That's my breaking point. I stand, but the room spins violently. Though I've barely touched my drink, my vision blurs and my limbs feel like lead. I take another sip, hoping to steady myself, but the disorientation deepens.

Everything loses focus.

The room tilts and sways.

My legs threaten to buckle as Evan's voice cuts through the haze, too close.

"Hey, you don't look too good," he murmurs, his hand already gripping my elbow. "Here, let me help."

First mistake—letting him guide me through the crowd.

Where's Claire? Why isn't he with her?

The world blurs as he steers me, supposedly toward the bathroom. Realization hits as a door clicks behind us—we're in a bedroom. Panic spikes, but my screams stay trapped in my throat. My vision clears just enough to see Evan's triumphant smirk.

"Evan, I—" The words slur, foreign to my ears. The floor seems to vanish as I sink into the mattress.

His laugh chills me to the bone. "This will be more fun if you relax."

My attempts to push him away are useless, my arms refusing to respond.

"Mm, I do like a challenge. Especially when they start begging." His voice drips with dark anticipation.

Desperation claws at me, but I'm voiceless, powerless. His fingers trace my jaw with false gentleness against the backdrop of my terror.

Then his weight pins me down.

My body won't respond.

My mind races, screaming to fight, but I'm trapped in stillness. I'm powerless beneath him.

"Shh, shh. It'll be over soon," he whispers, his tongue trailing my jaw as I try to shake my head. His hand holds me still. "Don't make this harder for yourself."

My heart threatens to burst from my chest. Tears burn as I squeeze my eyes shut, praying for an end to this nightmare. His hands invade, cruel and claiming, each touch a brand of ownership that scorches through me. I'm fragmenting, a silent scream lodged in my throat as he takes pieces of my soul.

Inch by inch.

"You feel real fucking good." His words echo in the chaos of my mind. I wish I could dissolve, vanish into nothing and forget.

But you don't forget something like this. As much as your mind tries to, your body always remembers.

I try to detach, to convince myself this isn't real. Just a horror movie scene, not my life. I shut my eyes to escape, but the darkness only sharpens his presence—his hands roaming with terrible ownership, one at my neck, the other violating. His body keeps me pinned, a constant reminder of my helplessness.

"Please st—" My voice breaks, pathetically weak.

His whisper poisons the air. "Just ride it out baby, ride it out."

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