Thank you Brightsparx, I'm looking forward to your reviews. Hope you keep liking the story as it's about to become a lot darker.

The first thing she does is hand me a cup of tea. I smell chamomile as the heats warms my freezing fngers and I sit down in a corner of the couch, pulling my legs up and curling into myself. The questions I expected don't come as we both sip from our cups. She doesn't sit down and doesn't come near me. I've had this conversation in my head a hundred times and now all the words desert me. She needs to know upfront though this is not about the case. Please, don't let me down, please, please don't leave now I've finally worked up the courage to talk to you.

You know this is not about Alisha's case, right?

She only nods en gives me a small smile. And still the questions I expected don't come. She doesn't say a word and just looks at me. In the end her strategy works. Before I know it I start talking.

I don't really know how to start. Or where to start. I never told anyone besides my therapist. It's been so long ago but I just can't seem to move on. It's never over somehow. Not even my mom believed me. For a long time even I didn't believe me. And it's not like I can do anything about it anymore. Statute of limitations ran out for me.

I'm rambling on and on until she removes her coat and walks over. Keeping her eyes on me she sits down on the other end of the couch. It's those eyes again that seem to reach into me and stills my nerves and my mouth. And then she asks me:

What happened?

It's exactly those words that get to me. No questioning me, no doubt, no are you sure, or why, or why now. She believes me and I feel tears fill my eyes. As they roll down my face there's only one thing I can say:-

Uncle Mathew happened. He wasn't even family. We called all the adults uncle and aunt when we were kids. Out of respect.

But he didn't deserve your respect, did he?

No, no he didn't.

I rub my arms in an attempt to stay in the moment and not be pulled back into the past.

I was just a child. How could he do that to a child?

I know there's no answer and she doesn't try to provide one.

What did he do?

He... he...

I find myself choking on the words. Anyone can say: sexual abuse. But that does not begin to explain what it really means. It doesn't say how it destroys your sense of self, crushes your belief in others, annihilates your hopes and dreams and damages you beyond repair. How it isolates you from anyone who could be a friend, leaving you desperately alone.

Again she stays silent, giving me space to work through this at my own pace.

I was so little. Only 4 or 5, I'm not sure, just that I was in kindergarten. My older brother was bullied in school. And my younger brother was just a baby. He was adopted and came to us extremely malnourished. My parents did the best they could, but I didn't get much atttention at home. I felt invisible and uncle Mathew saw me. He gave me attention. Made me feel special. I never felt that before. And I craved it so, so very much.

My throat is closing as tears run down my face. I can't say another word as sobs wrack my body. She reaches over and I shrink further into the corner of the couch. It's only then I see she's not moving closer but only holding out tissue. Embarrassed of my reaction I take it, crumpling it in my hand. With her silent support I find the strength to go on.

It started out really innocent. Giving me candy. Telling me I was really smart, much smarter than other children my age. I felt so important when I was with him. And he hugged me, cuddled with me. I missed that at home and it made me feel so safe and protected. I don't even know when it started to change. When the touching became more deliberate. When lines were being crossed.

I just know I liked it when he touched me. And then he taught me how to touch myself. He showed me what would feel good. And it did. It felt so good and it was our secret and I wouldn't tell anyone. Because he only taught me and no one else and it made me even more special.

I can't look at her anymore, hiding my face in my hands. I never admitted that to anyone before and I feel ashamed. But now I've started to tell my tale I find it near impossible to stop.

Keeping my secret only made me feel isolated in the end. And I had no other outlet to comfort myself but what he taught me.

As I finally fall silent her first words come in the form of a question.

You do know it's not your fault, don't you?