But it's not just the room.
The bed, the shorts I was wearing (since shredded ceremonially), his face, his hands. His hands, where they had no right to be. Where they had trespassed. My face turning to the side, looking away unable to stop it, unable to say no or to move his hand yet again. And I remember how it felt, physically. I remember that my body first betrayed me, and then it hurt. I remember feeling defeated.
The house is still there, the house where part of me died a slow death. I try to not look at it but I can’t stop myself, every time we drive by.
But that room, that room has moved. That room has found a new home in my head.
And there is part of my heart and my mind locked in there, crying on the bed, wishing he would just get the fuck off of me.