Experiences define us. Memories taunt us. Dreams remind us.

Mine are dark, vicious, and demanding.

They’ve pulled and tugged at me, dragging me into crippling sadness.

Dreams, nightmares, images of what happened, of who I became.

The reality of my past has shaped me, molded me with its vicious claws.

When you’re a child you’re taught about the boogie man. The monster

beneath your bed, the one hiding in the dark corner of your closet. But

they’re all just stories. They’re tales made up to scare us.

Aren’t they?

Not for me because I’ve met the monster. I came face-to-face with evil.

He, however, didn’t lurk under my bed. Or in the recesses of my

imagination.

And it was in the shroud of darkness that my soul was ripped from me.

When all I knew was taken and I was left a shell of a girl.

I no longer believed in fairy tales.

The day I turned sixteen I learned the devil lurked in plain sight. And

for two years, I had no way of escaping the clutches of the man I once

trusted.

The scars are not external, but internal, and they haunt me when I close

my eyes, leaving me crippled and damaged, and there’s nothing I can do

about it.

The memories of those years plague me on a daily basis. Like a horror

movie playing out on a film reel. He violated me, stole my mind, and

tainted every cell in my body. Wicked, vile images of when innocence was

wretched from me violently, leaving me what he always called me—a

broken girl.

I glance out the window and gaze at the stars twinkling in the night sky. As

it always does when I’m lying in bed, the memory comes to me unbidden,

unwanted, and it pains me as if I’ve cut myself and I’m bleeding out onto

the pristine sheets.

Two weeks ago my life changed forever. When the girl I was became a

stranger. The birthday party my mother held for me was beautiful. She went

all out with a cake, decorations, and all the kids from my grade were

invited.

What made me happiest was the fact my stepfather was home late from

work. I didn’t want him there, but I could tell Mom was angry—even though

she put on a smile for me.

I noticed the ongoing fights, the bruises, and marks on her arms and

legs.

They got married two years after my father passed away and even

though most kids would think their mother was replacing their dad, I didn’t.

She looked happy again, so I accepted him. Our new family.

He was amazing, friendly, and polite. When he took us on trips it felt

like we were a real family, but something changed and it was only after the

night of my birthday I realized what it was.

I was the problem.

It was my fault.

At least, that’s what he tells me.

I had noticed the change in him in those weeks leading up to my

birthday. He stopped hiding the way he looked at me. Or the way his hand

would brush against me and I could feel his disgusting drunken glare on

me, especially when I wore my gym shorts.

When he’s been at the bar and comes home late, those are the days he

hurts her. I don’t know why she doesn’t take me and leave. Even though I’ve

mentioned it when he wasn’t around, she laughed it off and told me to go do

my homework, or that I didn’t understand.

I did, though.

I hate when they have those arguments that turn into bruises and cuts. I

hide in my room, curled up, trying to drown out the noise. After the first

night, I made the promise to myself to get out.

Once I’m eighteen, I’ll be free.

Rolling over, I glance out of my bedroom window. It’s almost midnight.

The full moon bathes me in its blue light and the stars twinkle in the inky

sky. I used to love the dark, when everything is calm and quiet, but now it

brings my nightmares. The sound of the lock has my ears pricking and I

glance at the bedroom door, realizing too late that he’s used his own key.

The door cracks and the large, formidable bulk watches me from the

entrance of my bedroom. I want to scream, but no one will hear me. Mom

passed out again. She told me she had a migraine, but I knew she was

drunk.

I’m not stupid. The foul smelling liquor wafted from her like a sickly

perfume.

I watch him walk into the room and shut the door behind him. Only

when the lock clicks does my body start trembling with fear. I want to be

stronger, to fight back, but then he only hurts me more.

I used to hear stories about men like him, sick monsters who lurk in the

dark waiting, watching.

My heart thunders in my chest and there’s a lump in my throat

threatening to choke me. My mouth opens, but no words come.

“Hello, little snowflake,” he slurs, and I know why he didn’t come home

for dinner. The bar down the road must have been more inviting. He trudges

toward me with a sway in his step. He’s drunk again.

The man I used to trust, who used to care for me, is now the monster in

my nightmares. He’s the one who makes me cry.

“Answer me!” His gruff tone is enough to make me puke, but I swallow

down the acidic bile and close my eyes.

“Please, don’t do this again.” My whimper annoys me because I want

to sound stronger. I want to make sure he knows I hate him, but I’m afraid

and the fear makes me weak.

“I’ll fucking do what I want since your frigid bitch of a mother is

passed out again. She doesn’t let me touch her anymore, but you can make

me happy.” My stepfather turns to my window, tugging the blinds closed.

They say the strongest people are the ones who cry behind closed doors.

Maybe that’s me. Maybe I’m strong. The cotton sheet that was covering me

gets ripped away and the cool breeze that sweeps over my body sends a

shiver through me.

“My sweet girl, a fragile snowflake. I won’t hurt you. I know you like to

feel how much I love you. You’re my temptation.”

The sinister smirk that curls his cracked lips has revulsion crawling

over my skin.

“Our little secret. You won’t tell your mother because you know what

you are. You’re a whore. And you know she’ll see you that way. She’ll throw

you out of this house so fast your head will spin. You’ll never find someone

to love you and you know why? Because you’re broken and tainted. By me.”

The demented chuckle echoes through my room and that’s when the

tears spill.

I’m strong. I’m strong. I’m strong. I chant in my head, hoping the words

will one day ring true.

“Don’t do this, please.” Begging does nothing to stop him, but I ask

anyway, hoping he’ll see the error of his ways.

Rough, calloused hands stroke my legs and I want to crawl inside

myself. I want to hide from him, from my mother, from the world. “Open

your fucking legs.” Without waiting for me to move, he forces my thighs

apart. His heavy bulk now presses my body into the mattress. My eyes are

shut so tight I can see white behind my lids. “That’s it, you feel that? Feel

how happy you make me.” His erection painfully presses against my core.

The pain is coming. The pain is coming. The pain is coming.

I get a small reprieve when he sits up to pull my shorts down along with

my panties. Then suddenly I’m pinned down and he’s driving into my body.

His big, rough hand over my mouth muffles my scream at the searing pain

that shoots through me as he takes my body. The same way he did the first

night when he took the one thing I held onto—my innocence.

I am strong. I am strong. I am strong.

There are memories that bind us, memories that free us, and memories

that destroy us.

I’ve been destroyed for too long.

I severed myself from friends, family, and even love because I couldn’t

be near anyone. I couldn’t bring myself to smile and act like life was perfect

when it so clearly wasn’t. When my soul was carved out, held in the hand of

a man I grew to love.

A man I grew to trust.