Blurry.

Everything's blurry.

Disgusting.

He's disgusting.

Jensen's eyes suddenly open, reminding him of the pain his body is in. He can barely move his neck without feeling a sharp pain. The most painful thing is that it's nothing like the natural pain that comes with aging.

He blinks several times, making the memories clearer in his mind, feeling at the same time the warmth of a human body next to him. With horror, he realizes that she has her arm around his waist, as if in an attempt at comfort, gentleness or softness after what she'd done? His hand comes up to stop him from vomiting in time, his eyes shining with the glint of a few tears.

He manages to remove his arm and stand up, his body expressing its self-loathing with every movement. He managed to dress slowly, closing his eyes in a desperate attempt to bury the images of the previous night. As he zipped up his jacket, he heard movement on the bed. His body froze in horror. Paralyzed, her face appeared in his mind.

"Jensen? Are you leaving already?"

Her voice was soft. Her voice was honeyed. As if she didn't realize the harm in what she'd done. Or maybe she did realize, but didn't care. Jensen's hands shook uncontrollably, his breathing quickening until he was hyperventilating at the mere thought. The woman approached, her face grimacing with what Jensen interpreted as something resembling concern.

"Jensen? You should sit down, you don't look like you're—"

Her hand fell on his shoulder and Jensen flinched, slapping her hand away and taking a few steps back until his back hit the wall. She was too close, smelling a mixture of perfume and her natural scent, all mingling with the smell of alcohol lingering in the room. His panic accelerated, his eyes unfocused and blurry, his throat dry, and his heart pounding in his chest as if to escape and forget. He needed to forget.

His hand blindly grabbed the handle, wrenching the door open before running out of the apartment. He wasn't thinking—he couldn't. The events of the previous night replayed their full meaning in his mind. He saw himself drinking, again and again, as if he were a ghost from his past. She had approached, like an usual fan, joking and smiling. He hadn't seen her approach, hadn't noticed her lustful gaze, had no idea what she had put in his glass.

He hiccuped, vomit rising in his throat.

He had protested when she pushed him onto the bed. He had tried to be firmer the second time, talking about his partner. She hadn't listened to him. His limbs refused to obey her, body heavy, his mind fogging as he only could only see her, removing his clothes little by little. He had shuddered, his voice weak and shaky as he begged her to stop one last time. She had simply straddle him, forcing her lips against his to silence him.

Jensen stopped running when he reached a trash can, leaning over to vomit. He doesn't know how long he spent on that trash can, puking his guts out only to vomit again. He also doesn't know how he got home, shaking and sobbing. The most terrifying thing is that even once he got there, the memories didn't stop.

The warm of home didn’t work.

You were there, worried and biting your nails, when the door finally closed behind him. Within seconds, you were there, horrified to see his condition. When he looked at you, he seemed distant. So you opened your arms, welcoming him for a hug, smiling through your tears in the hope of comforting him. But the second had you touched him than he flinched a few steps behind and blurted out those words that made your blood run cold.

"No! P-Please, I've already said no! Stop… Stop touching me."