Page 28 of Notes About Vodka

“Can’t, already kicked her out. Besides, you are my wife and maybe it's your dry pussy I want to come in. Remind you who you really belong to.”

I want to slap him. Dry, my ass! That’s not fair. My body went through a lot in a very short period of time. I can’t help it that… things don’t always work down there.

“Seriously, Sam, get the fuck out. We are not having sex right now, nor will we ever have sex again, I’m no longer yours. Get it through your head already.”

I go to leave the kitchen, but Sam stops me, pushing my back against the wall.

I look into his dark brown eyes, seeing the gold flecks that I used to get lost in as I would try and count them all.

“Really, never, ever again…” he says as he holds my shoulder and squeezes my breast. Hard. He digs his fingernails into my skin.

A tearful, pained moan escapes my body. I grit my teeth as Sam moves to the other one, palming it just as hard as he leans down and kisses my neck. He bites, too. I know there will be marks, it gets him off to much. He loves seeing my pale skin bruise.

“Laura, baby, one more time, you know you want to. Think how hard I get you off the moment I slide in, every time.”

My mind blanks and goes dark as I stand there and let Sam continue placing biting kisses along my neck, my jaw, my cheeks. When he goes for my lips, I turn my head to the side. He presses my cheek into the wall.

“God, you’re such a bitch, Laura. Luckily you are a good dog that doesn’t fight back.”

He’s right, I stand there and take it. Because it could be so much worse. So, I do nothing as he pins me in place, spreading my legs apart. I know I say no, I know I don’t want this, but I don’t actually try to stop him either. I never have.

I hate myself so much. How can I let him keep doing this…

“Say my name, baby, you know you want to,” Sam grunts into my ear as he rubs his dick into my thigh through his pants.

“Never, I hate you,” I say loudly and in a moment of bravery and clarity, I try to push him off.

Sam just laughs, his bigger body holding me in place as his hands drift down my torso.

There is a moment that he has a hand down my yoga pants. His fingers almost touch my clit before his overly warm presence is gone. My back shivers at the chill of the apartment air.

I spin around, gasping as I see Skipper pressing his forearm into Sam’s esophagus. He has his knee in Sam’s gut, pushing inward.

I cry out, sinking to the floor against the wall just in time for Rhea to catch me and hold me against her chest.

Sobs release from my body as flashback upon flashback of Sam successfully getting away with what he wanted to do assaults my mind. I try to stop the memories, but one pushes through.

I know I should push him off. But lessons from the past have been learned. It’s going to hurt, but it could be even more painful if I don’t just give in.

So, I hate myself even more when I don’t struggle when I’m pushed onto the bed and Sam’s jeans fall to the ground and his dick is thrusting in and out of me. To say I feel dirty is an understatement. To wonder if he even washed his penis from the last girl before he’s inside me is even scarier.

I don’t want to admit how many times I’ve checked for STD/STIs since I found out he was chronically cheating on me. Each appointment feels like a scar, a reminder of the damage done—not just to my body, but to my trust and my sense of self-worth.

Why, Laura, why do you keep doing this to yourself? Sillygirl, haven’t you learned your lesson? But it’s not that simple. It’s never that simple. As he presses against me now, I feel that same sinking helplessness wash over me. I want to push him away, to scream, but it’s like my body won’t move—or maybe it’s just that I know it’s easier to let it happen. To get through it. To survive.

Every time I tell myself I’ll walk away, that this will be the last time, a part of me freezes, paralyzed by fear and doubt. What if I’m not strong enough to stand on my own? What if leaving means losing every piece of stability I’ve clung to, no matter how toxic it is? What if this is all I’ll ever deserve?

The shame swirls, heavy and unrelenting, but so does the guilt. It’s my fault for letting him do this. For not fighting back harder. The endless cycle of anger toward him, toward myself, leaves me exhausted, unable to breathe, much less resist. It’s easier to let it happen, to survive in the moment, even if it means hating myself afterward.

Because hating myself feels safer than facing the truth of how broken this has left me.

My fingers graze the small scars on my wrists and I snap back to reality, rocking in Rhea’s arms. She’s muttering something into my ear but I’m shaking. Skipper still has Sam pinned against the wall.

“Get out,” I somehow manage to say.

Rhea and Skipper look at me. I slowly stand, Rhea holding me up as I move over to Skipper and Sam and look Sam in the eyes as I calmly say, “Get out. Now.”

“Skipper,” I look at my best friend, pleading, “just escort him out, please.”

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