The nights are always the worst. Throughout the day, he at least has some avenue for respite -- distraction to be found in a diverting book or a long, lonely walk -- but it is now, as he finally surrenders to exhaustion and his eyelids drift shut, that the images are their most vivid.
Her voice in his ear, not just the sound of it but the way her breath rasped against his skin, hot and lustful. She had him pinned by the throat, his limbs obediently locked down in response. The clothes being removed from his body even as he tried to steady his breathing and tell himself, This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening--
With a violent start, he throws the blankets off his body.
The cold air rushes in straight away and he shudders violently, though he is strangely grateful for it; the overwhelming discomfort pushes every other thought from his mind. He rises from the mattress with no particular or coherent intent, and finds himself approaching the window.
He draws the curtains open -- more than a few moments elapse in his undoing of the tightly-laced knots -- and breathes in deeply of the night air, his gaze flitting fitfully over the scene before him: clouds smeared across the star-speckled sky, wilting gardens beneath, silver moon casting everything in a sickeningly soft glow.
As his eyes wander back to the battered roof of the house, they catch on something tucked between the gables. It takes a second of adjustment to the lighting before the object takes shape; a bird’s nest, he realizes. Wherein resides a single raven, seeming to be absorbed its surroundings much the same as he.
Shortly after this thought, another blackbird flies up, this one slightly larger than the first. It carries something in its beak which the latter readily accepts, cocking its head back to swallow the gift from its mate. Concluding this exchange, they begin to groom each other, tips of beaks combing through feathers in a mesmerizing rhythm of routine and mutual affection.
With the soft hum of cicadas overlaid, the scene is almost paradisic.
The new arrival goes suddenly and unnaturally still. The other blackbird continues its affectionate preening, oblivious that anything is wrong -- until the larger of the two seizes the smaller’s throat in a clawed foot and throws it against the tiled roof. Its cries of distress echo faintly over the distance as the former wrestles it down, viciously stabbing its beak and tearing out the eyes of the lesser creature.
He flinches back from the window.
One hand grips the sill as the other is raised instinctively to cover his face. Without looking he yanks the curtains shut -- although he notices, in his periphery, that no such violence is really taking place on the rooftop. The birds are still grooming each other, chirruping with satisfaction; the moonlight glints off their keratin beaks.
And yet his heart will not let up.
Breathing heavily, he sinks back onto the bed.
When did I start to see those illusions again?
And here he is again, laying down in the dark, eyes trained on the ceiling to prevent them from closing once more. But they will close, eventually -- he has no other choice. Exhaustion wears at the edges of his mind like the frayed hem on a sleeve.
“This isn’t happening,” he says out loud, numbly.
Her body had been so soft and warm against his. It feels wrong that he should remember it this way -- with an air of something close to comfort -- but then, when has anyone else ever been so gentle with him? I won’t hurt you, she promised, and even after all that she’d done he could only believe her.
Her hand closed around his throat like a switch, his mind and body shutting down without a moment’s hesitation. Just let it happen, they seemed to say. Give her what she wants.
And so he did.
He lets out a soft whimper, cock twitching in his grasp.
He starts off with slow, uneven strokes, squirming with the effort of self-restraint. It’s strange to compare this unfiltered pleasure to before, so sharp it almost hurts -- a sensation that hasn’t been dulled by fear or detachment.
“Please,” he mumbles to no one, “stop.”
His hips buck up into his hand. Blindly he reaches for a pillow, pressing it to his face as his moans become more difficult to suppress.
Did it feel the same way, back then? he wonders feverishly. So overwhelming, so terrifying? Fingers twist around fabric; he wants to imagine her hand is there, clasping his with that reassuring forcefulness as he struggles under her, the panic and desperation in him rising with every second -- right alongside that growing realization of his own helplessness -- until he can no longer say whether the words falling senselessly from his lips are implorations for her to stop or to keep going.
His hand freezes in place.
My God, what is wrong with me?
Once again his body acts of its own accord -- even as the horror and shame well up in him his muscles seize all over, and he can’t help but cry out, trembling with an unbearable pleasure that almost immediately comes crashing to an unsatisfying halt; and then it dies as quickly as it came, trickles off into nothing. All it leaves behind are electric spasms of the nerves and a stickiness dripping down his stomach.
He lays there for a long moment, breathing hard and staring into the darkness. Then, with a shuddering sigh, he turns onto his side and pulls the blankets over his head.