Now I Know Better.
#2 of He Was My Friend
(No idea why I decided to continue this story after five years, with how little I write, but this is what I imagine would take place after "He Was My Friend." I might continue it.)
A sharp pain and the rattle of a chain startled Laila out of her strange, semi-conscious daze. With a rush of renewed fear and panic, her senses and her memories of what she had just experienced flooded over her anew: shock; betrayal; humiliation; rape; the cold, clammy creeping of recently ejaculated semen on her stomach. A freezing chill ran through her spine, making her quickly attempt to sit up, but she fell back onto her elbows against the metal restraints that held her wrists. Her mahogany eyes went wide, but what they confirmed made her wish she'd kept them shut. There she lay, naked, gray fur disheveled and semen seeping through the fur of her stomach, faced with the armadillo who had once been her best friend as he struggled to remove a chain from her right ankle. He jumped when he saw her staring at him, and his hand slipped on the chain, dropping it onto her ankle; it was the same sharp pain, and she yelped unwittingly.
Argent stammered a clumsy apology, and the short silence that followed only highlighted the awkwardness of the situation; here he was, apologizing for an honest mistake, shortly after he'd done far, far worse things to her. Ashamed, he returned his attention to the chain, and succeeded in removing it. As soon as he did, Laila drew it close to her other leg, eyes full of fear and distrust focused on Argent. He had to look away, sliding to the foot of the bed and turning to face the adjacent wall. Now that his lust was fulfilled, and he could no longer feel the burning need that had driven him with such determination before, he had trouble imagining what could have made him assault his friend as he had. The two of them had been close friends for two years, and Laila had always been there for him; when he had once struggled with thoughts of suicide, it was her constant positivity, encouragement, and occasional profound wisdom that had brought him back again. When he had trouble finding friends and dismal self-esteem, it was her unconditional love and acceptance that made him feel like a person again. It was her constant kindness towards him that made him fall in love with her, and despite her obvious loyalty and commitment to Sayeh during all that time, his love for her only grew stronger.
He did all he could to suppress it, but all it got him was guilt and depression, and so as always Laila would respond to his unhappiness with concern, which made him love her even more. Love led to lust, and a desire she never reciprocated, but which he liked to imagine she did; was there more than friendship in that hug? Did her smile just then mean something more? Was her kindness proof that she loved him the same way he loved her? Finally, his frustration with his love and want for her had culminated into one heinous act: rape. He looked back at her; she was looking away, towards the door, her expression unreadable to him. He felt so terrible for what he'd done to her. Could their relationship ever heal? Argent stood, almost sheepish as he undid the remaining chains that had held the bunny spread-eagled on his bed. Perhaps... she would forgive him?
As soon as she was free, Laila scrambled off of the bed and towards the door, tried to stand, but faltered and crumbled to her knees, her entire body stiff and aching inside and out after the ordeal. Where was she going to go? What could she do? She withdrew into herself, pressed against the bed, wanting to get farther away but too confused and disoriented to make a plan. Her shirt was destroyed; she didn't have a bra. How could she go out in public? Where would she go? He had driven her here. She couldn't very well ask him to drive her back. Sayeh didn't have a car. But he did take the bus. She could call him, and ask him to meet her at the bus stop so she wouldn't need to go alone. She would go home. But what to wear? She glanced around, and spotted a discarded shirt of Argent's on the floor. She grabbed it and pulled it close. She'd wear this, and put her jeans back on... there was still semen on her stomach. She cringed, feeling disgusted and dirty; she'd need to clean up a bit, too.
It pained Argent to see Laila, the woman he respected above all others, who always knew what to do, kneeling in a desperate panic on his bedroom floor. She's broken, he thought. What I did broke her... I broke her. It's my fault. Unbidden, underneath the shame and horror a new feeling altogether sparked-Pride. Satisfaction. The evil feelings he thought had been sated by his brutal act were still inside of him, but quieter, lying in wait but not defeated. _That's it, this must be who I really am. An evil man. A rapist. I don't deserve
Laila as a friend or anything else... I hope she leaves and never looks back. I hope she never forgives me._ But even that was a lie to himself, and he knew it... as his thoughts spiraled into darkness and his eyes wandered dangerously over the invitingly sharp edges of the scissors he had cast aside earlier, he realized that he was completely dependent on Laila. Argent's whole world was chaos without her; his own thoughts and feelings were unstable and strange to him, and what ambitions he had always seemed to end in failure without her guidance and support. Laila's bubbly cheerfulness made all of the bad things in his life seem okay, and her surprisingly infallible logic made sense of even the most convoluted thoughts that twisted him. All except the ones he did not share with her. He began to turn his head to look at her, and found that he couldn't bring himself to do it. Keeping his back to her, he buried his head in his hands and waited for her to make a move.
Laila was just about as composed as she could expect herself to be. With great revulsion she had finally picked and groomed her fur clean of Argent's semen, and pulled on the too-big shirt she had found. She spotted her jeans crumpled against a wall nearer to Argent, steeled herself, and with as much pride as she could muster she walked to them, watching Argent, keeping her face fearless as more of his face came into view. Much of his expression was hidden by his hands, but with Argent back to normal Laila could read him like a page from a book; he was pensive, torn by his own emotions, and probably ashamed of what he had done. He didn't try to look at her as she bent and took her jeans from the floor; she took them back to the door as quickly as she could. Without anything to wear beneath them, the jeans hurt her sensitive area as she put them on more than she allowed her face to admit; without a sound, she tried to make herself as presentable as possible, then reached for the door. She studied Argent before she left; usually when he was in this state she would pity him and try to comfort him, and though some instinct within her did still feel that way, most of her burned with hatred and outrage at what he had just done to her, and that he had the nerve to feel sorry for himself even now. Her hand on the door handle, the words were right on the tip of her tongue... "I hate you," she wanted to say, but she couldn't do it. She wasn't even sure if she meant it... not yet. Torn, but saying nothing, Laila took one last, contemptuous look at the armadillo who used to be her friend, and left.