Dirty Me/Go home and try to forget this

From Create Your Own Story

You find enough clothes laying around that you can dress yourself then slink home, your self esteem even lower than normal. Apparently, you weren't the only person to end up completely naked as you step over arms and legs and other bits to find your way to the door.

Getting in your car, you sit there, crying. Finally you pull yourself together and get the key in, start it up, drive home.

You think again that maybe you should call the police. Then again, what good would the police do? They prefer harassing you to helping you. Besides, how would they help you anyways? After all, you have the feeling you were raped by more than one guy, and although your pussy hurts, it will heal. It is not bleeding anymore.

When you get home, you see a message on your Facebook from your friend.

"Damn girl. You got so wasted last night. I saw you slipping into the bedroom with that cute guy, all staggering and couldn't even talk straight. Were you wasted, or high? Must have been something great. Why didn't you get me so we could share? You know I am always up for most anything. Anyways, message me when you get in. I want to know how he was."

You look at the message, completely sick. She saw you being taken into the room, and never bothered to check to see if you were okay. Friend, yeah right, you think to yourself, wishing you had never gone.

Pulling yourself into the shower, you turn the heat up until you almost cannot stand it. You wash the blood and the cum off yourself, then keep scrubbing, wanting to get the feel of it off. Breaking down in the shower more than once, you are overwhelmed by emotions. Rage. Anger. Hatred. Despair. Guilt. Eventually, you finish up and curl up on your bed, falling to sleep, too overwhelmed to care that it is still morning.

You eventually fall into a normal routine again over the next few days. After all, it's not like you were ever particularly happy. Most of life has been depression, mood swings, unhealthy relationships. More than anything, you feel numb.

Your phone rings. Looking at the caller's phone number, you don't recognize it.

"Hello," you answer, wondering if it is some stupid salesman or something. Almost looking forward to the idea of pissing them off so much they hang up on you. In this mood, you figure it won't take long.

"Hi there," you hear the person on the other side say. There is something familiar about the voice. "So, want to party again tonight? We had such a great time at the last one, we would love for you to join us."

The blood rushes from your face, and you feel the sudden urge to throw up. It's him. The guy who gave you the beer. The guy who drugged you.

"Come on, talk to me. Don't be like that," he states. His voice seems almost taunting, close enough that you can hear it as you listen for it, but not enough that you will automatically know. "It was such a great party. Maybe we had a little too much to drink, I don't remember. I don't remember much of the party. Too much beer I guess. This time, we will have fun and not bother with the beer."

He chuckles. "You were the life of the party. I don't think it would be as much fun without you." His chuckle, and the disgusting words that follows, not only hurts, but turns your blood to ice at the same time.

You resist the urge to scream at him. To throw the phone. To hang up on him. You find some sort of calm, distancing yourself from yourself, and start thinking things that maybe, just maybe, you shouldn't be thinking.

You are thinking of your dad's guns.

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