Mark didn't want to be here, hiding in his closet, with his knees hugged to his chest and his head bowed. He didn't want to be in the dark, his breathing shaky and his shoulders tense. Hearing his roommate knock on the door and call out for him was making him feel bad. He should be better than this—he should be getting up, opening that door, and telling his roommate he was fine.

But he wasn't fine. He wasn't sure he'd ever be fine again. What had happened played over and over in his mind, and he felt gross, the kind of gross that made his stomach lurch and his skin crawl. He wished he could just escape his body, tear off his skin and be rid of himself. His brain was a traitor, making him relive the feeling, the smell, the sight.

He should've been able to do something. Anything. Not just stare, wide-eyed and frozen, as Anissa took from him something he'd never get back.

He heard the doorknob turning, and he tensed even further, his fingernails digging into his arms. Mark didn't want to be seen like this. He didn't want his roommate to see him, weak and pathetic. But his legs wouldn't move, and his tears wouldn't stop, and it was all he could do to curl in on himself, press into the corner of the closet, wish the dark would swallow him whole.

"I-I'm fine," he managed, his voice strained and shaky. "Don't... Don't come in. I'm, uh, I'm busy." He could feel the blood dripping down his arms, staining his sleeves, the floor. His heart was beating out of his chest, his breaths shallow and his vision spotty. He couldn't breathe. "Please, please," he gasped. "I'm okay. Leave. Please."

Maybe if he lied to himself enough times, he'd eventually believe it.