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I was ten. My mother was in the hospital miscarrying my little brother.
You were trusted to look after us.
It was Valentines day. I can remember the feeling of conversation hearts melting on my tongue when you slithered in next to me.
You took my innocence that night, and along with it all the things I felt were right about the world. You ruined Valentines Day, the sanctity of blanket forts,my favorite bed sheets, and a dog-eared paperback copy of Stephen King's "It."
You took with you my childlike sense of wonder and replaced it with a fear of the dark that lingers to this day.
Seven years later, you came for a week long stay with my family. I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow. I remembered the creepy glares you gave me during dinner. I made a solemn promise to stab you if you tried anything like that again. Hell, I contemplated just walking in the next room and offing you while you slept. A fourteen year old girl shouldn't have such thoughts.