1960– john is twenty, you are (choose age)

you pushed against john, trying to get him away from you as he held your head against his chest forcefully, trying to calm you down.

“get off of me!” you sobbed. you were a mess— your hair wet from rain water, your mascara running down your cheeks, your body bare other than your undergarments, your face and limbs bruised, and your usual sweet scent being overtaken by the smell of alcohol and cigarettes. you had gone out and gotten drunk again, resulting in a mental breakdown. it happened too often these days.

john slapped your face harshly, trying to knock some sense into you before grabbing it and caressing your cheeks. “calm down. you’re okay, you’re okay.” he said roughly, pressing his forehead against your own, in attempt to stop your tears. the two of you were on your knees, half-naked, on your shared, messy bed. and john didn’t know what to do with you anymore— he really didn’t. it was so hard to love you.