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Description
It was August. The second week of August, early afternoon. A hot day, but not uncomfortably so. The sun was falling through my arched window, draping its light lazily across my floor. I had been sitting there for hours, doing this and that and whatnot. Nothing too interesting.

My mom was at work. Ian was in the room next to mine, on the computer. I could hear his fingers playing across the keyboard, tap tap, taptaptaptap, tap, taptap…. An occasional sigh. The crisp sound of his teeth biting into a green apple. I would lean my forehead against my window, looking out at the street below. I could feel the sun heating up my head, making me a little dizzy. My heart started beating ever so slightly faster, and I was bored.

I was ten at the time, going to be eleven in two months. Still young, still clueless. Utterly curious and bright and always looking for something new to look into and learn about.

I stood up from my bead, my vision slightly blurry from standing so quickly. I shook my head from side to side, feeling the dizziness fade and fall down my legs like a silk dress around my ankles, and I stepped out of it, looking up, and seeing more than the darkness again. I saw the door to my bedroom, and piles of books I had already read scattered across the floor. I made my way towards my door, pushing it open with a gentle turn of the old brass knob.

I left the door open. I caught a glance of myself in the mirror in the living room. Messy, dark blonde hair falling over my shoulders. A pink tie-dye shirt. Sunburnt cheeks, circles under my eyes from staying up past midnight finishing a book. Knee-length shorts, bare feet. I was tan back then. Back when I'd spend hours on the beach, playing deep in the water and then lying out on the sand until the sun went down or the cold of the wind scared me away.

But that day, I was indoors. I was cooped up in those dark wood walls, waiting for something to do.

"E-E?" I asked timidly, knocking on the door to the room that Ian was in.

"Hold on," he called back. I could hear his weight shifting in the chair, and then I heard his footsteps come closer, making the floor creak. He opened the door, peering with narrowed eyes down at me. He was bare-chested, wearing only dark blue plaid boxers and sandals.

I wanted to play. At that time, I was too young to understand those things. Too innocent. He let me in, shut the door behind me. As he turned around, I sat on the corner of the bed, looking to my hands clasped in my lap. I kicked my legs back and forth, playfully, like any child would do when they were bored.

I saw him turn, out of the corner of my eye, and I looked up at him hopefully. Something fun, maybe, was about to happen! He was going to entertain me, take away my boredom.

We started playing, on the bed. I was giggling. He would take my hair tie from my wrist, and I'd try to wrestle it back. I'd fight against his strength, his size, his outright superiority. It was all fun and games to me, and I'd be laughing happily, unsuspecting. I never noticed that he wasn't laughing. It never bothered me that he kept a stern, serious gaze. Not one bit of this "fun" bothered me, until once, I couldn't get my hair tie back from his grasp.

I was upset. I hit him lightly out of frustration, thinking nothing of it. It wasn't a slap, no where near a punch. Just a simple bump with the base of my palm, intended to let him know that I was done playing and I wanted what was mine back.

He took my wrist, looked me in the eye. Something about his gaze at that moment made me hate him. I did not fear him, just felt a deep surge of hatred. He had pale blue orbs for eyes, that looked like water encased in glass. Every time he moved his eyes, the water would seem to slosh back and forth, as if his irises had melted in the center.

His pupils were sharp, just like his harsh voice, ordering me, "Do not hit me!" His voice was slightly raised. I knew that he had a tendency to lose his temper in a bad way, so I did not respond, just merely tried to tug my hand away. But he wouldn't let go.

He shoved me onto my back on the bed, refusing to accept that I would not verbally respond to him. He had always tried to teach me how to work things out using my words and reason, and it angered him when I moped and did not talk.

He was somewhat crouched over me. Holding my left wrist, tightly, in his hand. His knees fell onto the bed on either side of me, and he looked down at me, the anger burning in his eyes like ice blue coals.

I struggled against him, turning my head to the left, toward the wall. I kicked my legs to try and get him off of me, but he merely pressed his body down, trapping my legs. It was useless.

He bent down, pressed his wet lips against mine. I cried out, shaking my head to try and avoid him.

"Stop!" I said in a high-pitched yell. He squeezed my wrist tighter, slapping me across the cheek with his free hand. It did not hurt, but it stung.

"Be quiet," he said in a tone that frightened me even more. It was low and serious, critically savage. "Don't scream, or else the neighbors will call the cops."

He kissed me again, and I shut my eyes tight. I saw nothing but the dark red of the afternoon light falling from the window. I tried to put my free hand against his chest, push him away, but he took a hold of it and pressed it against the bed. Both of my wrists were pinned above my head, and this game wasn't fun any more.

"No!" I shrieked, biting his lip to try to get him to stop.

"Shut up!" His voice was ruthless and strict, and I caught my breath, my chin wobbling. I felt his body press against mine. His tongue wandering over my lips, but I did not open up. He had kissed me before, right? Wasn't this normal? Wasn't this okay? E-E was like my dad, he'd been helping to take care of me since I was two years old. He would never do something to me I didn't like.

….Right?

The rest I don't remember. The only memory I can recall is the feeling of hot tears falling from my cheeks. The pressure of his body over mine. His rough breathing, his low grunts. The way he used one hand to push me out of the room, stunned and stumbling, clutching myself. The deep, throbbing pain I felt for the rest of the week, and how I'd hold myself late at night, trying to keep myself from breaking into pieces.

The rest of it is lost in the darkness of things I can't remember, and never wanted to anyway. The rest of it is nightmares, flashbacks, getting lost in the past.

But all of it… even the parts I can't remember – it all is a part of me. Every last breath. Every fallen tear, every moment of aching pain. It still is me.

Description
It was August. The second week of August, early afternoon. A hot day, but not uncomfortably so. The sun was falling through my arched window, draping its light lazily across my floor. I had been sitting there for hours, doing this and that and whatnot. Nothing too interesting.

My mom was at work. Ian was in the room next to mine, on the computer. I could hear his fingers playing across the keyboard, tap tap, taptaptaptap, tap, taptap…. An occasional sigh. The crisp sound of his teeth biting into a green apple. I would lean my forehead against my window, looking out at the street below. I could feel the sun heating up my head, making me a little dizzy. My heart started beating ever so slightly faster, and I was bored.

I was ten at the time, going to be eleven in two months. Still young, still clueless. Utterly curious and bright and always looking for something new to look into and learn about.

I stood up from my bead, my vision slightly blurry from standing so quickly. I shook my head from side to side, feeling the dizziness fade and fall down my legs like a silk dress around my ankles, and I stepped out of it, looking up, and seeing more than the darkness again. I saw the door to my bedroom, and piles of books I had already read scattered across the floor. I made my way towards my door, pushing it open with a gentle turn of the old brass knob.

I left the door open. I caught a glance of myself in the mirror in the living room. Messy, dark blonde hair falling over my shoulders. A pink tie-dye shirt. Sunburnt cheeks, circles under my eyes from staying up past midnight finishing a book. Knee-length shorts, bare feet. I was tan back then. Back when I'd spend hours on the beach, playing deep in the water and then lying out on the sand until the sun went down or the cold of the wind scared me away.

But that day, I was indoors. I was cooped up in those dark wood walls, waiting for something to do.

"E-E?" I asked timidly, knocking on the door to the room that Ian was in.

"Hold on," he called back. I could hear his weight shifting in the chair, and then I heard his footsteps come closer, making the floor creak. He opened the door, peering with narrowed eyes down at me. He was bare-chested, wearing only dark blue plaid boxers and sandals.

I wanted to play. At that time, I was too young to understand those things. Too innocent. He let me in, shut the door behind me. As he turned around, I sat on the corner of the bed, looking to my hands clasped in my lap. I kicked my legs back and forth, playfully, like any child would do when they were bored.

I saw him turn, out of the corner of my eye, and I looked up at him hopefully. Something fun, maybe, was about to happen! He was going to entertain me, take away my boredom.

We started playing, on the bed. I was giggling. He would take my hair tie from my wrist, and I'd try to wrestle it back. I'd fight against his strength, his size, his outright superiority. It was all fun and games to me, and I'd be laughing happily, unsuspecting. I never noticed that he wasn't laughing. It never bothered me that he kept a stern, serious gaze. Not one bit of this "fun" bothered me, until once, I couldn't get my hair tie back from his grasp.

I was upset. I hit him lightly out of frustration, thinking nothing of it. It wasn't a slap, no where near a punch. Just a simple bump with the base of my palm, intended to let him know that I was done playing and I wanted what was mine back.

He took my wrist, looked me in the eye. Something about his gaze at that moment made me hate him. I did not fear him, just felt a deep surge of hatred. He had pale blue orbs for eyes, that looked like water encased in glass. Every time he moved his eyes, the water would seem to slosh back and forth, as if his irises had melted in the center.

His pupils were sharp, just like his harsh voice, ordering me, "Do not hit me!" His voice was slightly raised. I knew that he had a tendency to lose his temper in a bad way, so I did not respond, just merely tried to tug my hand away. But he wouldn't let go.

He shoved me onto my back on the bed, refusing to accept that I would not verbally respond to him. He had always tried to teach me how to work things out using my words and reason, and it angered him when I moped and did not talk.

He was somewhat crouched over me. Holding my left wrist, tightly, in his hand. His knees fell onto the bed on either side of me, and he looked down at me, the anger burning in his eyes like ice blue coals.

I struggled against him, turning my head to the left, toward the wall. I kicked my legs to try and get him off of me, but he merely pressed his body down, trapping my legs. It was useless.

He bent down, pressed his wet lips against mine. I cried out, shaking my head to try and avoid him.

"Stop!" I said in a high-pitched yell. He squeezed my wrist tighter, slapping me across the cheek with his free hand. It did not hurt, but it stung.

"Be quiet," he said in a tone that frightened me even more. It was low and serious, critically savage. "Don't scream, or else the neighbors will call the cops."

He kissed me again, and I shut my eyes tight. I saw nothing but the dark red of the afternoon light falling from the window. I tried to put my free hand against his chest, push him away, but he took a hold of it and pressed it against the bed. Both of my wrists were pinned above my head, and this game wasn't fun any more.

"No!" I shrieked, biting his lip to try to get him to stop.

"Shut up!" His voice was ruthless and strict, and I caught my breath, my chin wobbling. I felt his body press against mine. His tongue wandering over my lips, but I did not open up. He had kissed me before, right? Wasn't this normal? Wasn't this okay? E-E was like my dad, he'd been helping to take care of me since I was two years old. He would never do something to me I didn't like.

….Right?

The rest I don't remember. The only memory I can recall is the feeling of hot tears falling from my cheeks. The pressure of his body over mine. His rough breathing, his low grunts. The way he used one hand to push me out of the room, stunned and stumbling, clutching myself. The deep, throbbing pain I felt for the rest of the week, and how I'd hold myself late at night, trying to keep myself from breaking into pieces.

The rest of it is lost in the darkness of things I can't remember, and never wanted to anyway. The rest of it is nightmares, flashbacks, getting lost in the past.

But all of it… even the parts I can't remember – it all is a part of me. Every last breath. Every fallen tear, every moment of aching pain. It still is me.