The Room 22

There isn’t much left from that night, in my mind. Half of me, was elsewhere, and the rest of me took its absence for granted. He was Irish, older and rude. I was 18, high and trusting. There were two guys, three girls and a dog. The apartment was spread onto two floors and on the living room table there were plates, covered in blow.
If we are our addictions, then those plates were the essence of me.
My friend, a red headed girl, told me it was probably time for me to go home.
I went up to his room, seeking for more of me, for a distraction, for a few books.
I sat on the bed, asking for it, or just going through pages of book I had never read. He followed, kissed me as I kissed back. He pushed me down, I couldn’t breathe, he put his hand between my legs. I tried to pull him away. He said he’d give me what I wanted. He said I wanted it; he made me bleed. I said I had to go to washroom and that he’d better stop. I saw the blood. I yelled to call me a cab. I yelled; that he had no idea what I wanted. He did, I put my boots on, it was snowing outside and I had no stockings.
I ran down the stairs, slipped. He laughed.
The cab driver asked if I needed help. It’s too late, I said.