When you meet him, try not to look too much into his eyes. And try not to look too much like you’re trying to avoid looking into his eyes. When you meet him try to remember what you’re saying, don’t let your train of thought leave without you because his eyes are glowing too blue.

I met him at the debate society social, a pub crawl. I’d been buying half pints at each pub and the others thought it was funny. But he was just drinking lemonade. So I had a friend. I sat at the bar trying to make as little contact with the surface as possible- it was that kind of sticky all student bars are. Karim. His name was Karim that night, in case it matters. His skin was a shade of brown that melted into the warm lighting at the bar, and his eyes were this bright, frosty blue. The debate that night had been capital punishment. He had been one of the debaters, playing devil’s advocate, he said. He said this after he’d spent a full twenty minutes quietly convincing me it was justifiable. I tried to shoot all the arguments I could remember back at him, giddy with certainty and cider. I tried, and I would not say he rebutted them, it was softer than that, more quiet. He twisted them like how I remember twisting pipe cleaners to humour my mum at Christmas.

And when you meet him, try not to let yourself feel like you have to remember everything. You will want to remember everything for him, so you can see what bizarre shapes he can twist it all into.

At the club we spent most of our time in the smoking area, sitting on the kerb just shy of the shards of broken beer bottle. The bouncer gave him a nod of recognition. His arm was around me. When did he put his arm around me? He was warm. Not as warm as I thought he would be. And I couldn’t tell if he knew I was trying too hard not to look at him because something about his eyes made me shiver. For a while I had been focussing all my energy on holding my breath to stop the hiccups. I felt his hand on my waist. When did he move his hand? The hiccups were gone. I leant onto the kerb and felt an icy sting in my palm. I drew it back and immediately fell sideways. He pulled me to him. He took my hand in his and shone his eyes on it.  A shard of glass stuck in my hand. I could see the shape of the sharp end under the skin of my palm and stared for a second before a bead of blood rolled over my wrist.

“This won’t hurt a bit,” he said, and squeezed the shard out of my palm, back onto the ground. I choked on a hiccup. “We should bandage it,” he said, and he lifted my dead weight with my good arm around his neck.

When you wake up, know that you could have said something. Know that you can still say something, and that you will not say something because there is nothing to say. Your mouth is dry and sour with last night’s cider. His lemonade breath is still in your ear; you can hear it.

Back at his he produced Savlon and a plaster out of somewhere and I apologised, lying back on his bed letting the room spin. He’d stopped talking about whatever it was that made him seem so smart. His smile seemed different in the dark. His white teeth floated in the dim room below the glowing eyes, a Cheshire smile. It didn’t look right, like he had too many teeth. His face moved towards me, became bigger until it filled the room, it enveloped me. It was like being inside a globe. That is the last fully formed thought I remember.

When he pushes your face to the wall try not to scream at the crunch of cartilage. Cough a little. Breath deep and try not to hiccup. Close your eyes. No, close them, do not open them. Not even for a second, or that second with be burned into your synapses and leave the smell of burnt flesh lingering there. Then open your eyes because when they are closed every smell and touch and taste and sound are amplified so loud, the feedback in your brain is unbearable. Turn your head away from him if he lets you, do not let him pin you with his cold blue stare. It will give you frostbite if you look too long. Look away. Look at anything else. Look at what is on his bedside table. The box of plasters. An alarm clock. A plate with some crumbs and a smudge of marmite. A black plastic retainer case, half open baring two hollow rows of glassy plastic that bulge with the impression of his teeth. You have the same one on your bedside table. You imagine him eating the marmite toast with his Cheshire teeth, you think about him putting his retainer on before he goes to bed. It seems ridiculous and for a second you nearly laugh, but the air is too heavy. You imagine him waking up, yawning and rubbing his eyes. You imagine him having to rub frost out of his eyes. Next to the retainer, a solved Rubix cube, a blister packet of paracetamol with one tablet left, a condom wrapper- that’s good. Allow yourself to sigh microscopically when you see the torn sliver of the condom wrapper. And then realise that letting go of the terror felt good. Let some more of it trickle away, let it happen. He’s not going to stop; you may as well let it happen.

How did he get on top of me? He is all I can see. He is everywhere. His hair tickles my cheek and my heart hums hard. He must be able to feel it. He must be able to hear it. And feel my quick breath on his neck. I push him away minutely before the bristling pain. Did I lock the door? This isn’t my house I remember. 

Maybe you’ll tell a couple of friends but you won’t say the word. You’ll make them say it so you can flatly refuse it. And you’ll wonder how many people it would take to call it that before you can call it that.

For an hour after I try to sleep in the green glow of the alarm clock. But my heart still hums. I get up, gather as many of my things as I can find. For a moment, I pause by the bedside table, place my fingertips on the half open retainer case, the hollow plastic teeth grimace at me. I snap the case shut and leave. Back home my housemates are in the kitchen. They stand with raised eyebrows between me and the shower.

When they say one night stand in Never Have I Ever and sideways glances come at you, your face will burn on one side, the other will feel cool with the memory of the wall. Then one day you’ll stop drinking in Never Have I Ever. You’ll stop smelling his breath on lemonade and when a Rubix cube in a friend’s living room reminds you of him again, you’ll feel bad for not being more fucked up because, yeah, it probably was. If someone had told you it happened to them then it probably would be. But it’s just you. It different when it’s you. It’s fine. This is not a survival guide. You have already survived. But when you find yourself on the rape crisis page in incognito mode at three in the morning that one night, and there is so much grey and nothing seems clear like snow on TV or white noise, maybe know just that you’re not alone. Just that. This is not to say it does not matter. Neither is it to say that you are special. Just that you’re not alone. You can put your retainer back on now.