Anywhere but here
I was backhanded across the kitchen, briefly losing consciousness. I woke up to find him on top of me on the kitchen floor, trying to rip my clothes off, talking to me the whole time. Telling me that I deserved this, I was a filthy whore, I would fail my degree and be a terrible doctor, that my friends hate me, how ugly I am, and how grateful I should be that he would take an interest in me.
I know I hit him, managing to scratch him. Pushing a chair at him, I forced him off me. He screamed after me as I ran from the room.
For a few days that evening was a blank. It was only when a friend asked me how I had such a badly bruised wrist and cheekbone that I began to face up to what had happened.
I met John* when I