I rarely sleep well. But especially when my two room mates are away for the weekend.
So when I hear the front door open forcibly, so clearly not with a key, I could feel the same thing I felt before.
I listen keenly. Could one of my room mates simply have come home early and forgotten their key? I know their treads. Liza’s is easy to distinguish plus she always takes off her shoes. It wasn’t her. James has a much heavier tread and never takes his shoes off but he has a lengthy gait so I know how long it takes him to get from room to room. I know it isn’t my boyfriend John – he’s in the UK.
This person is not a woman so strike Liza out. He is definitely a male but he is taking a lot longer to move from room to room so it isn’t James.
I am trying to calm myself and reach across my duvet for my iPhone. It is still playing one of my sleep meditation apps (a dreadlocked Norwegian guru recommended by my therapist who has seemingly cured my insomnia), so I turn that off, and check to see how much charge is left.
– Why the hell didn’t I bring my charger with to my room with me?
The man is now coming up the terrace house steps to my bed room. I am torn. Do I call 911 and let him know I am here?
There is nowhere to hide in my bedroom. No closet. I am a student and we only have hanging racks for our clothes. My bed is a mattress on the floor so nothing to hide under.
– Why didn’t I listen to my mother about student accommodation?
As I hear the heavy tread approach my door I try the breathing exercises which the Norwegian has taught me to help me sleep.
– Deep breath in through your nostrils. Hold it there. Let the life force fill your body. And as you exhale imagine you are breathing out through the soles of your feet
My breath is doing going nowhere near my feet but coming in ragged, rapid gasps. I try and remain as quiet as I can and stifle a sob.
My bedroom door is forced opened and he is there. He is tall. About 6 foot 1. Heavy set. I am good with heights and weights. I have had to be. All I can think about is last time. And the song that played. “Avalon” by Bryan Ferry.
– Please don’t hurt me
I don’t get a verbal response. Just a shove back onto my mattress. I feel the iPhone crack under me.
– Why didn’t I call 911 earlier?
As he clambers on top of me I smell him for the first time. It’s a mixture of weed and beer with a hint of deodorant . I recoil. It smells like the same deodorant that John wears. At least it isn’t Dior Sauvage. Like last time.
I hear him unzip. A noise that so often delights, now horrifies me.
He grasps my wrists and pins them around the top of my head. I struggle but it only intensifies his grasp on me. Can he feel my heart pounding, mistaking my pain and fear for desire?
Then I remember.
– It would help your case a lot more if you had physical evidence of the “rape”. There are no contusions, no broken bones, nothing but your re-telling of it. That won’t necessarily convince a prosecutor to charge him with anything. ‘Morning after regret’ is what he will call it.
I let him grasp my wrists as tightly as he can, silently praying that bruises will appear. Big dark vicious welts marking me. Again. But this time visibly.
I love the immediate tension here—the opening line establishes vulnerability fast. The process of eliminating possibilities is strong (footsteps, gait, shoes), the interior monologue feels authentic: practical, fragmented, urgent, the concrete constraints (no closet, mattress on the floor, dead phone) raise the stakes effectively.
The callback to “last time” and the song hints at deeper trauma without exposition—that’s gold.
I see opportunities for improvement as well.
The scene relies heavily on cognition; fear is analyzed more than physically embodied. I’d encourage you to research visceral stress reactions and use a few to deepen the viewpoint experience. Thrillers often rely on an escalating loop of sensory trigger (external, e.g. a sound), somatic response (e.g. breath snagging, heart pounding, muscles tensing), and only then fragmented thinking.
The ending lands abruptly; one more visceral beat could deepen its impact. Embodiment could also help transform lines like “I could feel the same thing I felt before” from telling into showing.
Overall, I like this piece a lot—and adding a bit more body awareness could tighten the tension to the next level.
What happened to v1? The point of version labeling is to post each version as a separate entry, so we can later review them side by side. Changing the title alone still leads to comment-versus-post confusion.
Apologies, I didn’t realise the right way to “version up” as some around me say. I will make sure I do it properly next time. Cheers.
No worries at all.
It may not be the right way — it’s simply my way, shared by some others, too. It feels awkward to me when feedback has been given but the post later shifts out of alignment with the comments. I’m not trying to impose anything on anyone — this is just about my own boundaries.
Thank you so much for being considerate — it truly means a lot to me.
I’ve been thinking about this, and I think in-post revisions could work as well, as long as there’s a comment clarifying what was changed. That way, later readers won’t be looking for something that no longer exists. Just another idea — in case you’re more comfortable with in-post revisions than posting revisions as a new entry. 🙂