the good life is a process, not a state of being.
it is a direction, not a destination.
— Carl Rogers

I was drowning. Drowning in my thoughts. Drowning in hands that weren't meant to be on me.

Most would be squirming, gasping, screaming.

I didn't.

I stayed silent, compliant, when I could feel the endless inferno building up inside me, struggling to escape. I stilled.

The room was cold. It was dark. That horrible, sickening stench of alcohol mixed with an unpleasant amount of dust forced its way into my nose, into my system, and under my skin. His spit and his body, slick with sweat, were the only things I could focus on to keep me from crying out, to keep me from more harm, to keep me sane. His breaths turned ragged and shallower with every movement, and I felt my hair sticking to my shoulders and my chest. That was the least of my worries, and the only thing I could've been bothered about was when will this end?

Feeling the freezing tiles under me, I turned towards the side as his hand landed across my face. The sound reverberated throughout the enclosed room, but I was glad that the pain helped. It numbed me. But I knew it wasn't going to last.

The glint in the corner of the room was hard to ignore. It seemed to draw me closer, nearer, tempting me to hold it. If only, if only I could reach out and touch it. The sensation was insane. Pushing him off, my only thought was to finish this.

Finish this. End this.

I didn't think much. My strive for revenge was indescribable; all I knew was that I wanted him, and I needed him, to feel a hundred times more pain than he'd ever made me feel. The sharpness of plastic and steel fitted my hands so perfectly. This was meant to happen. It lay still in my hands, silent, like a soundless, sleeping baby. It seemed so at peace, so innocent, yet it gave me a sudden surge of undeniable power as I took in the look of absolute horror on his face.

This was it.

And as bitterness clouded the room, I knew that I was safe.