After I wrote it all out yesterday, I kept thinking about it. Over and over again.

Now I feel like I've rinsed it out of my soul. The memory, it's still there, yes, but I feel freer.

All I needed was to let it out and have a good night's sleep.

Right?

But maybe I do need to tell someone. Maybe I need to admit it to a real live person, not just some pieces of parchment sewn together.

I can't.

Why didn't I tell immediately? It's so much harder now. But of course I couldn't then. I was fifteen. I was hurt, horrified, sickened. And guilty.

Why did it have to happen that way? It was the worst possible way.

I'm still scared.