I wonder if you ever think about me - about the terrible and evil things you would do to me. I wonder if you ever feel guilty about it, or if you ever wish you hadn't let me live so I couldn't tell my story. I wonder if you're seeing anyone now, and pray to God that you're not doing to her what you so easily did to me.

I wonder if you can still hear my screams from when you stabbed me. I wonder if you can still hear my cries from when you pawned me to your friends. I wonder if you can still hear my pleas of fear from when you locked me away for several hours. I wonder if you can still hear my sorrows from when you would force yourself on me. I wonder if you can still hear me begging you not to kill me when you had a gun pressed against my temple or a knife across my throat. I wonder if you can still hear my desperate gasps for air from when you suffocated and resuscitated me.

I hate you. Oh, God do I hate you. You destroyed me. You annihilated any tiny bit of innocence I may have had left within me. You made me vulnerable and it's humiliating. You had the audacity to make yourself seem so perfect that I could open up to you about everything. You brainwashed me into believing that no one else would ever put up with someone as disgusting as me, because the things you did to me made me broken and dirty. You embedded me with such a burning fear of what you would do to me or my friends if I left you.

I hope you think about me. I hope the guilt is overbearing and drives you completely mad. I hope you never have a child that experiences the ultimate evil you cast upon me. I hope you're out there somewhere and reading this, along with the rest of my story, while overwhelming panic flows through you because you realize I'm starting to talk.

I'm not scared of you anymore. I'm not paralyzed with fear anymore. I'm opening up. I'm remembering. I'm not depressed or sorrowful over what has happened to me anymore. I'm angry.

I'm angry that I allowed myself to get so mentally attached to someone that I couldn't see what was happening. I'm angry that you would even think that it was okay for you to do any of those things to me. I'm angry that some of the things you did were so dark and twisted that I either don't remember the full story or no one seems to believe me.

I gruesomely hope you regret keeping me alive, because I am ready. I survived, I am alive, and I'm going to tell the world.