These are the things you remember about last night.

Going to work, despite it being Sunday and being so exhausted you could nearly collapse. Bone weary and emotionally spent in a way that seems to just keep creeping up and building on you. You're still not even sure why you accepted the shift that someone else called out for, except that you can't stand the idea of sitting your house alone anymore.

That the crowd at the bar is not your typical group. The regulars are around, floating in and out, trying to hold on to seats at the bar, but more than anything there are college students who have just graduated and want to party and tourists wanting a final hurrah from their fourth of july excursion before heading back to work on Monday. It's fine by you because the more shots they order the more tips they leave and besides, they're easier to flirt with (and with flirting comes more tips).

Talking to Ben. Your stomach twists in knots just thinking about it, and you're not entirely sure if it's a pleasant feeling. Or maybe it is, it's just hard to tell.

Pouring more shots.

You skip dinner because the bar is slammed and you know you can always eat something later or in the morning. It's not the first time and you're certainly not going to starve. The tips are too good right now to step away from the bar.

Shots shots shots shots shots. (Pouring, not drinking. Except maybe one when someone insists on buying.)

You spill a drink, you think. Which doesn't seem right because tending bar is second nature to you and if someone asked the last time you actually spilled a drink, you wouldn't have a clue of the answer. The glass breaks and everything but you clean up and move on, telling people to "fuck off already" when they clap for your disaster, though they only take pleasure in your short reply.

There was a glass of juice at one point in the night. Or maybe it was a Coke? It must have been, because you wanted the caffeine, needing a push for your second wind and some sugar to stave off the slight bout of dizziness that had settled over you.

By the time you're wrapping up at the bar, your head is pounding. There's a throbbing behind your eyes and someone from your shift (who was it?) actually volunteers to finish closing things up, seeing how flustered you've become and how little has gotten done. Each simple task seems to be taking triple the time and you don't understand why.

You remember leaving and walking to your car. Or you think you do, but in actuality the image in your head is hazy and what you can picture is more muscle memory than anything, having parked your car in the same spot countless times before without incident.

But then there's mostly black.

You don't remember that the shot you took had more in the glass than you had poured. But it's easy to miss because it's so busy and you're doing a million other things, and really you take the shot because some guy keeps insisting he bought it for you and he just won't leave your bar and you've got other customers to help. Honestly, you just want him out of your face and taking it is the easiest way to shut him up.

You don't remember stumbling on your way out to your car, but you do. And when you get to your parking space, having pulled out the keys you've been fumbling in your bag for, they somehow don't seem to fit into the lock. If anyone else had seen you, without a doubt they would know that you're suddenly more drunk than you'd probably ever been (but you aren't) and in a completely ungraceful move, your keys wind up dropped to the ground by your feet.

You don't really remember the man right behind you (where did he come from?) offering to help, first with a hand on the small of your back and then wrapped around your waist, pressing against you, not even pretending to get your keys. You don't remember shaking your head or saying no or trying to push him away, but you do, for all the good it does. He's all hands, grabbing at you, and even if you were thinking clearly (and you're obviously not) it would be hard to tell if he's helping you stay upright or hurting you. He tastes like stale cigarettes and cheap liquor as he kisses you (as forcefully as you usually like it, but not this time) and you're already so nauseous, what little food you have eaten that day is a very real threat of returning. He's gripping your face so tightly, your chin between his fingers, that it makes it hard to pull away, but when you're finally able your lips feel bruised. Might even be bleeding.

You wouldn't remember stumbling again. Your long limbs are usually more coordinated, but somehow between him pawing and ripping at clothes and the intense spinning in your head, your feet get caught up in his and while trying to get away you wind up on the ground, your hands and knees scraped, your bag and belongings spilling out over the parking lot.

Luckily you don't remember his words about waiting for this all night, about the things he has planned, how he knows you want this (despite your protests, even if they aren't entirely coherent). The sound of his zipper isn't collected in your memory.

You don't remember being overwhelmingly tired, but you are. Just like you don't remember hitting your head on the pavement when he tries to grab you again, but you do (and that doesn't help with the remembering either. Maybe it's for the best). But you continue to struggle, scratching along his neck in a moment your arms break free from his hold, hard enough to draw blood. His eyes flash with rage but he's on top of you and he's much stronger. His hands find your throat, growling about how you shouldn't have done that, pressing so hard you're sure there's no way you can get enough oxygen. You don't remember, but you know you're going to pass out. You know you're going to pass out, and he's going to take you and then leave you there broken.

You've never considered yourself a person with any kind of luck, someone some force was watching over, not after everything that's happened in your life (things you do remember too well and wish you didn't), and you don't remember thinking there was any way out of this. But then your fingers, already given up on prying his from your skin, find your keys on the ground, just barely in reach. You don't remember inching them closer to yourself until you're finally able to pick them up, or pushing them toward him as hard as you can, not caring where you hit him as long as you do and he lets go. You just need to breathe. You don't remember the blood under your palm, even though you hate blood, because there's already tears in your eyes as you're finally able to take in a breath (even without all this you can't remember the last time you actually cried - no, you can, you just don't want to).

There's no way you can get up, but it doesn't matter. You don't remember the stream of foul language that rips from his mouth as he stumbles away this time, grabbing your bag and belongings with violent haste, yelling how you're not even worth it anyway as he walks away as if nothing ever happened.

You can't remember not being able to scream, not being able to keep your eyes open.

It's just black.