It's been nine-hundred and forty-five days since I was dragged down that lonely road and into that dark garden and had that stranger drive into me with the enthusiasm of someone who got his first car.
Though the details I remember have become less vivid with time, I still remember he smelt like he had had a bath in alcohol, I remember crying, I remember wishing I'd die from the pain. I remember thinking I should hate men now but wouldn't dare because of how much of a god my Father was and still is.
The nightmares may have stopped but every morning I wake up, I still wish I had died in my sleep the previous night. I think it's sad that death is the only thing I'm optimistic about.
I still panic and fret when a stranger touches me unexpectedly.
I do want to forget but the scars from my blade wouldn't permit me.
I do want to forget but the fear of letting anyone get close wouldn't let me.
Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I shouldn't have gone to class to read that night, I should've stayed in my room with no electricity and burnt a candle.
No, it's the government's fault. I pay my taxes, they should've given me electricity.
It's the fault of the justice system that I can't find love because of how emotionally unstable I became. They should've punished my offender. When they finally got him, they shouldn't have let him go because he had more money than myself.
Now, I wake up every morning and get depressed because I had hoped to die in my sleep. Why is optimism such a sadist?