![]() I couldn't walk out of the room if I didn't want to see it anymore. Instead it played over and over in my head like a broken record. Every word I read made me shake just a little more. It wasn't something I could turn off with a remote control. I couldn't mute the memories, I couldn't make the screen go black when the violence became too much to bear. "THEY" had surfaced somewhere new. Those horrible photos that had been taken of me while I was being raped. THEY were accompanied by paragraph after paragraph of explicit detail from the perspective of one of my rapists. THEY included phrases like "you don't know how many times I've to this story" and "This is all a true story!" Of course it was. I lived that story. I lived that nightmare. I lived that day that would make Stephen King's "Carrie" seem like a fairy tale and Bram Stoker's "Dracula" seem almost realistic by comparison. Yet it wasn't fiction. ![]() ![]() I wanted to crawl back under the covers and hide. I wanted to cry myself to sleep, but sleep had already eluded me for the last 7 hours I'd been laying in bed. I didn't know what I was going to do. I couldn't think. I panicked. This was the last thing I needed.
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