Next time.
If there was even to be a next time…
She breathed, determined to compose herself as she walked. Memories haunting her, manifesting as fantasies. Waiting for the next time, wishing for it to happen again.
If she ever saw him again…
… she’d kill him. She hated him for what he’d done to her. She wanted him to pay for what he’d done to her. She wanted him to really suffer for her pain.
She shifted her memories back into what they really were… a shameful mess of forfeited pride and terrible trauma.
She hated him for what he’d done. And it only grew when she remembered the truth; it only made her madder.
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