“Drink this. You’ll feel better.” Smith hands me a bottle he’s already been swigging from. Feeling wrecked, I pull myself up and reach for a bit of the hair of the dog he’s offering. The vodka burns my throat and strengthens my morning breath. He pops a little white pill into his mouth before taking the bottle back for a swig.

“What’s that?” I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“Xanax. It helps take the edge off. You want one?”

My head pounds, and my stomach churns.

So, I hold my hand out in acceptance. If the little pill makes me feel better, then I want it. Smith drops one into my palm and hands me back the bottle. My lip snarls as I consume more vodka along with the Xanax before placing the bottle on the floor next to the mattress.

It’s then that I realize something I should have noticed far sooner.

My clothes lie in a pile on the floor near Smith’s feet. Not even a bra or underwear covers me. I’m stark naked, and he’s only in a pair of boxers. I search my recollection of last night, but there are too many gaps in time, and I don’t remember the end of the night at all.

“Uh, did we, um, did we have sex?”

“No, Party Girl. You were drooling on yourself before I even got you to bed. There wasn’t any funny business. You must have been hot and took your clothes off sometime after you passed out because I didn’t unclothe you either. I mean, not that I mind the view or when you pushed your bare tits against me throughout the night.”

The booze warms my veins, and I sink into the mattress, waiting for the effects from the pill. Smith lies beside me, his skin touching mine with his free hand on my leg.

“We still could—fuck, that is.” His fingers trail up my thigh.

Something bitter inside me has been craving sex.

The last man to touch me was in that farmhouse, and his hands destroyed me—are still destroying me. If being fucked—making the choice, deciding to give myself over—would help to wash it all away, then I am all in.

There is one way to find out.

I grab the alcohol from where I left it and take down another four healthy gulps before depositing the nearly empty bottle onto the bedroom floor. My legs spread as his hand moves higher. “Then, fuck me already,” I say without much enthusiasm as I lick the vodka coating my lips.

Nothing about this moment is sexy.

We’re hungover, maybe still drunk or maybe drunk again. I’m not even sure. My breath stinks, and we both smell faintly of sweat. None of that seems to stop either of us. His eyes are heavy and glossy as he rolls on top of me.

“Now, we’re having fun, Party Girl.”

His fingers carelessly rub against my pussy until I’m wet. My body reacts, but I’m more or less numb. His movements don’t evoke excitement, but still, I follow along, hoping that going through with this will help me forget. That’s really what every choice I make is about.

He brings my fingers to his lips and sucks on them as his dick slides against my entrance, growing harder. I freeze when he slides in. Rushes of memories from the farmhouse flood me, and it’s like the man’s angry words are being spewed right next to my ear all over again. Smith’s body, heavy atop mine, isn’t his own anymore. It’s the asshole that hurt me. Frantically, I roll Smith beneath me and switch our positions. From above him, I hold my hand against my thigh and dig my nails into my skin.

Stay here. Stay present. This is my choice.

Pushing away the past, I ride Smith with quick, jerky movements, focusing on myself, on the way my hips move, on the cramp in my hamstrings. He’s unaware of the very personal meltdown happening inside me as he groans with pleasure.

“That’s it, Iris.”

“Don’t talk,” I grit out. His words only cause me distress, fear that he’ll say something, anything that triggers me and takes me back.

Smith lies back with a satisfied grin on his face and doesn’t utter another word as I keep fucking him. There are zero thrills in it for me. It’s all about proving I can make it through this. I keep my eyes open, afraid that, if I close them, the monsters will chase me. My sight stays zoned in on a water spot leaking through the wall. My body moves, and my pussy welcomes Smith’s cock, but I feel nothing.

I can do this. I am doing it.

My triumph cuts through the numbness, and I moan. Fuck yes! Victoriously, I look down at the man beneath me, a man I chose to be my next. He’s watching my tits bounce with attentive eyes, and while there still isn’t any tingling between my legs, the tiniest iota of sexiness takes life inside me.

I move quicker, my hips bouncing on top of Smith’s pelvis.

As quick as the excitement came, it’s swept away.

A wave of confusion and drowsiness drowns my mind and pulls me deep under. My fingers slip from my side, and my palms hit the mattress, forcing my body to slow.

The Xanax.

“That’s okay; I’ve got you.” Smith regains the control and takes his place back on top, pumping into me while I try to force my vision to focus.

Vodka. Xanax. Sex. All before ever even getting out of bed.

The combination is a trifecta for camouflaging damaged emotions. High, I’m pacified. Smith thrusts, and I fly higher into a place I thought didn’t exist anymore—refuge. The top of my dry lip gets stuck to my gums as I attempt a smile.

“That’s it; clench that cunt, Iris. I’m going to come.”

He thrusts and pumps for a minute or two more and then pulls out before coming on my leg. The mattress squeaks as he falls beside me and then grabs the bottle, so he can drain it.

“Feels fucking incredible, doesn’t it, Iris?”

Waking up naked with a stranger and ingesting booze and pills for breakfast with a side of meaningless sex of my choosing?

Oddly, it does. It so fucking does.

Why?

Just fucking because.