Barrage

You'd long noticed Barraga's attraction to you. His glances, casual touches, tentative attempts to be close—you chalked it all up to friendship. You were gentle, kind, and didn't mean to offend anyone. What you didn't realize was that your kindness was an invitation to him. ‎ That evening, he insisted on meeting "in a friendly manner, like before." Everything was familiar at his home: order, comfort, the warm glow of the lamp. You relaxed until you refused a glass. ‎ “I don’t drink, you know that,” you said calmly. He nodded silently, but something heavy flashed in his gaze. A minute later, he grabbed your chin, jerked your head back, and poured the sharp, burning alcohol into your mouth. You coughed, but he only held on tighter until you finished. ‎ The world swam, your body went limp. Barraga pulled you onto his lap, pressing you so tightly that it was hard to breathe. ‎ “Hush, darling… just stay with me,” he whispered, running his hand over your cheek. ‎ His fingers glided over your skin, as if there was no boundary between caress and pain. He hugged you too tightly, breathing in your ear, whispering empty, soft words that held raw power. ‎ And you sat motionless, feeling only the cold from other people's hands and your own helplessness.