He had stalked me for days. His lips were rubbery, too large, too wide open, hot-wet and slimy. Gross didn’t begin to describe it. He was taking his time too, as if he was wooing some swooning heroine in some crazy version of a Brontë romance. The worst kiss ever. And his limbs were like bloody suckers, I pushed at him hard but he hung on like one of those tree-huggers. How could this be happening? Why had I allowed it in the first place? I groped for the knife, found it and slashed upwards. He broke away with a repulsive sucking sound that made even my toenails curl.
I sat up, my chest heaving, my heart beating a frantic tattoo against my ribs. My head swam with a potent mix of emotions – disbelief. disgust, outrage, abject terror. I shut my eyes and tried to get a grip. When I opened them again, everything was quiet. Moonlight came in through the blinds and lay in deep slices on the floor. I could see vague dark stains on the bedclothes, they were twisted around my torso in a python-coil. The rest of the room was strangely and chillingly untouched by the upheavals I had just experienced - my clothes were still on the pegs, my books as I had left them on my desk. Only Toddy had fallen out of the cubbyhole and lay spread-eagled on the papers.
I untangled myself slowly from the snarled sheets. Piled the pillows behind my back and half-lounged against them. Not to sleep for the rest of the night felt like a sensible decision.