It was 1965, and you and John had gotten into a massive argument. You hated arguing with him, purely due to the fact that he got particularly aggressive when he was angry. This argument had been more… heated, to say the least, and it had resulted in him slapping you. He apologised afterwards, of course, but then stormed out on you.

“Sitting pretty in the prime of life…”

He’d gone out to a bar after he’d stormed out on you, and disappeared for hours on end. You were still unbelievably pissed off with him, and quite frankly, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. He was probably off shagging some other lass by this point, and you were vaguely aware of that — but decided not to linger on the thought.

“I’m so tasty, and the price is right.”

He finally slammed the front door at around 4:30 in the morning, causing your breath to hitch. That certainly wasn’t a good sign. You walked out to the living room drowsily to make sure he wasn’t about to punch a glass window, and were met with warm hands pushing you against a wall. His breath was warm against your neck, and he smelt of oddly-sweet alcohol. His pupils were blown wide with what you’d assumed to be arousal — making you shudder, and let out a low curse — which was interrupted as he pressed his lips messily to yours, his hands grabbing at you with a sense of aggression and desperation.