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Today, August twenty-fourth, I was given my first assignment in my creative writing class. It was simple, short, and sweet. We were instructed to write a list of things we remember for ten minutes, non-stop in our notebooks.
The assignment itself was easy, but the mental spiral it brought on wasn't. All I could think about were the memories you've burned into my brain. The quiet touches engraved into my skin. The burn in my throat as you pressed me against the wall, when I was only thirteen years old, chocking me. You don't remember that part though, do you? At least, you didn't when mom questioned you on it. You looked her dead in the eyes and lied.
Just like when your eyes met mine months later as you rambled about how horrible you'd felt over the whole ordeal. Saying that YOU had a hard time sleeping at night sometimes from the guilt of what you'd done to me.
Isn't that bittersweet? How you told me that you struggled to sleep out of guild for touching me while I struggles to sleep because I don't know if you assaulted me yet again when we shared a bed with one another during the storm.
Or, how during our game of scrabble you placed the word 'rape' down across the board despite the fact that my father was only inches away from you. Perhaps you'd find the memory of you looping your belt across my neck and lightly tugging it as a 'joke' sweet too.
The worst part about any of this, though, is the fact that I don't even hate you. Despite how much easier it would be to loathe your face and the tone of your voice. I can't. Because I will be expected to live with you for the next three years of my life. To share the same shower, kitchen and parents as you.
Because at this rate, hating you would be a chore that I'm simply too tired to commit to.
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This was sad and beautiful, and I'm sorry that you have to go through that. You don't deserve it.
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