Scarred Excerpt

Matt’s journal dated July 2005
I’m supposed to write down my memories to get them off my chest and out of my head. I guess it can’t hurt at this point, so here goes….
Daniel Blankenship took me when I was seven.
The asshole fucking dragged a little boy off his brand new seventh-birthday BMX bike because he wanted a new toy. When he yanked me from my bike, and I saw it resting on the sidewalk, front tire still spinning, my major concern was that if I left it there, some kid would come along and steal it. But when he stuffed me into his van I quickly got the bigger picture. I was being stolen and my bike was the least of my worries.
I do my best not to think about the things he did to me for the next eight years, until, at fifteen, I was too old to do it for him. So at this point, the twisted shit he did is tightly sealed in long-term storage—in a fireproof, waterproof unit at the very back of my brain—where I plan to leave it and forget I ever put it there. God knows I’ve recalled it all—every revolting detail—and I’ve suffered over each memory I fought my ass off to own. But I can’t dwell on that shit anymore, or even talk about it, like everybody in my life seems so bound and determined to make me do.
I’ve reached the conclusion that I can no longer live in the company of other people.

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