I've got bruises and a scrape on my leg to remind me of it, to remind me of… something. Not that I needed the painful mementos – even the parts of the night I don't remember are branded somewhere in me.

Did I fall? Did he cut me somehow? My jeans weren't torn, so I know when it happened I was… unclothed.

The word naked is still too much. To know that I was, to say it, to see myself in that room, that way. Who was I? Who was he? How did it all…

Christ, there's no end to this.