45 seconds

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asked, handing me a glass of water.

 I'm staring at the clock mounted above her. 

Forty five seconds. 

It wasn't just about you forcing yourself onto me. When you ripped my dress, I choked on my own screams. It was shock. They never told me it leaves you utterly confounded. You shoved my head against the headboard. That must have been when I stopped thinking. It didn't matter what I did. I was ruined in that moment.

Hours, days or light years. It took forever. I mentally counted the ticks off the large wall clock high up and close to the ceiling. 

I recall the seconds hand was hanging onto 1 for so long when I got caught in the envelope of pain; it ticked ever slowly as you pushed harder, I thought I was going to die when it reached 6. It struck 10 and you grunted, lifting off me. 

Everything became a blend of blur. There was pain. The physical one when you entered me. There was the other pain; I was locked up in it. You tossed a roll of toilet paper at me, "Clean up."

That was it? This was it?

I was cold. The windows were wide open and rain threatened to fall outside with a distant roar of thunder. You did have guts, to stare me in the eyes. You said you were sorry. I wanted to scratch your eyes out. I wanted to curse you. I wanted to scream and kick. 

I died there; watched my body fall limp as I  departed from it. Muffled crying came from outside the door, it was my little sister. She heard. Everything.

"There's nothing to talk about." I said through a smile.