March Contest


By March 24, 2019 No Comments

The pleasure in pain is real. I could see it in his eyes as the weight of his body pressed me down. He was not the same. In my sixteen years, I had never noticed how chiseled his body was, or how neat his hair was or how much of an animal he could be.
I tried to wriggle out of his grip, but my struggle was met with a hot slap, and I was forced to stay still, feeling him steal my innocence. I counted the flowers on the ceiling board; they were 29, just like Uncle Marco was.


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