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Description
I can’t see through the itchy fabric he tied around my face. It’s wet from my crying. I can hear him moving furniture around, scratching the floor. He’s singing ‘Rock-a-by-baby’.

He must’ve untied the cloth because the overhead lights blind me. He asks my name, but I won’t tell him. He tells me to call him Eric and wants to know if I know any boys my age called that. I do, but I still won’t talk. And he says if I don’t start talking he will hurt me. I look at the ground and continue to cry.

He cuts me high on the shoulder, twice. I make a squeaking noise, but refuse to talk. He carries my to his bed and starts to undress me. I close my eyes and pretend to be somewhere else.
He touches me for about ten minutes. He starts to cry and screams at me to get out. I pick up my clothes and run as fast as my eight-year-old legs allow me to. I hear him follow so I duck into a janitor’s closet and miraculously have enough sense to lock the door. I dress myself once he stops pounding on the door.

I hear him crying while slamming his door. I wait for what feels like three hours but is closer to ten minutes, exit the closet as quiet as I can, and go down one floor before knocking and asking for help.
I try to explain what happened, but the distressing sight of a child, bleeding and trying to explain an act of recent molestation was enough for the young woman to lock her door and call the police. She asks for his apartment number and I tell her which one I think it is.

They know it’s the right apartment when they find a man poorly executing a suicide and both of my shoes as well as one of my socks.
According to the pictures they found, I avoided a great deal of pain, torture, death.

Description
I can’t see through the itchy fabric he tied around my face. It’s wet from my crying. I can hear him moving furniture around, scratching the floor. He’s singing ‘Rock-a-by-baby’.

He must’ve untied the cloth because the overhead lights blind me. He asks my name, but I won’t tell him. He tells me to call him Eric and wants to know if I know any boys my age called that. I do, but I still won’t talk. And he says if I don’t start talking he will hurt me. I look at the ground and continue to cry.

He cuts me high on the shoulder, twice. I make a squeaking noise, but refuse to talk. He carries my to his bed and starts to undress me. I close my eyes and pretend to be somewhere else.
He touches me for about ten minutes. He starts to cry and screams at me to get out. I pick up my clothes and run as fast as my eight-year-old legs allow me to. I hear him follow so I duck into a janitor’s closet and miraculously have enough sense to lock the door. I dress myself once he stops pounding on the door.

I hear him crying while slamming his door. I wait for what feels like three hours but is closer to ten minutes, exit the closet as quiet as I can, and go down one floor before knocking and asking for help.
I try to explain what happened, but the distressing sight of a child, bleeding and trying to explain an act of recent molestation was enough for the young woman to lock her door and call the police. She asks for his apartment number and I tell her which one I think it is.

They know it’s the right apartment when they find a man poorly executing a suicide and both of my shoes as well as one of my socks.
According to the pictures they found, I avoided a great deal of pain, torture, death.