(Okay I did it! I might expand on it more later, this is more of a minifill)
Sometimes she had to remind herself that she could do whatever she wanted now that he was gone. She would try, always expecting to be pulled back by something wrapped around her brain, but she never was. Not anymore.
It was small things she tried at first, just baby steps. Going out to a bar (that was the first thing she did, and she did a lot of it afterwards) or eating something that he wouldn’t have approved of (she could hear him in her head, calling her disgusting names, insulting her as she ate her first slice of pizza since she was freed of him).
Sex was an easy “fuck you” to him. After all those months of pleading, of begging, she needed to be able to do it herself. It was easy to go out to a bar, down half a bottle of whisky, and then pick up the first man she saw. She never really enjoyed the sex itself (would she ever enjoy it again?) but she enjoyed the feeling of control it gave her.
She owned her own body. No one would take that away from her again.
Once she got through the easy (easier?) things: eating pizza, drinking alone, fucking strangers, she progressed onto the harder parts.
Masturbating was the hardest (at least, she thought it was). Sex was easy. Sex was a distraction. She could focus her attention completely on someone else, take control of her body that way. Maybe fake an orgasm or three. But she couldn’t hide when she tried it on herself. There was no one else to focus on.
And when she closed her eyes she could still hear his voice.
It was two years between when she was freed of him and when she finally managed an orgasm. Two long years of seeing his face every time she closed her eyes, of checking every room when she first got home, making sure she was really alone. Two long years of paranoia.
Something changed with that first orgasm. She felt safer, freer. She had reclaimed herself from him, just a little bit more.
She considered therapy but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The idea of speaking what had happened to her, of saying those things out loud—the very thought made her sick to her stomach.
She challenged herself in other ways though. Once she had established that she could have sex, once she had proven to herself that she had complete control over that, she tried not having sex. Prove to herself that she wasn’t the slut, the whore, the needy little bitch he had always told her she was.
She went thirteen weeks without sex before she was convinced that she could hold off indefinitely if she wanted to.
She never dared try that with alcohol. Thirteen weeks without the numbness she got from it—whisky, gin, tequila, rum, whatever was on hand—sounded like hell. Worse than hell. She’d have to relive it all every night.
The only way she could ever close her eyes without seeing his face, that godawful purple colour invading her thoughts, was with a half a dozen shots or more. Getting blackout drunk meant no dreams.
And she would rather be hungover to high hell than dream of him.
Fill: Plenty of Rope
Sometimes she had to remind herself that she could do whatever she wanted now that he was gone. She would try, always expecting to be pulled back by something wrapped around her brain, but she never was. Not anymore.
It was small things she tried at first, just baby steps. Going out to a bar (that was the first thing she did, and she did a lot of it afterwards) or eating something that he wouldn’t have approved of (she could hear him in her head, calling her disgusting names, insulting her as she ate her first slice of pizza since she was freed of him).
Sex was an easy “fuck you” to him. After all those months of pleading, of begging, she needed to be able to do it herself. It was easy to go out to a bar, down half a bottle of whisky, and then pick up the first man she saw. She never really enjoyed the sex itself (would she ever enjoy it again?) but she enjoyed the feeling of control it gave her.
She owned her own body. No one would take that away from her again.
Once she got through the easy (easier?) things: eating pizza, drinking alone, fucking strangers, she progressed onto the harder parts.
Masturbating was the hardest (at least, she thought it was). Sex was easy. Sex was a distraction. She could focus her attention completely on someone else, take control of her body that way. Maybe fake an orgasm or three. But she couldn’t hide when she tried it on herself. There was no one else to focus on.
And when she closed her eyes she could still hear his voice.
It was two years between when she was freed of him and when she finally managed an orgasm. Two long years of seeing his face every time she closed her eyes, of checking every room when she first got home, making sure she was really alone. Two long years of paranoia.
Something changed with that first orgasm. She felt safer, freer. She had reclaimed herself from him, just a little bit more.
She considered therapy but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The idea of speaking what had happened to her, of saying those things out loud—the very thought made her sick to her stomach.
She challenged herself in other ways though. Once she had established that she could have sex, once she had proven to herself that she had complete control over that, she tried not having sex. Prove to herself that she wasn’t the slut, the whore, the needy little bitch he had always told her she was.
She went thirteen weeks without sex before she was convinced that she could hold off indefinitely if she wanted to.
She never dared try that with alcohol. Thirteen weeks without the numbness she got from it—whisky, gin, tequila, rum, whatever was on hand—sounded like hell. Worse than hell. She’d have to relive it all every night.
The only way she could ever close her eyes without seeing his face, that godawful purple colour invading her thoughts, was with a half a dozen shots or more. Getting blackout drunk meant no dreams.
And she would rather be hungover to high hell than dream of him.
Would anything ever be safe again?