All I had were my words, and I didn't think anyone would ever believe me over my abuser. After all, it was my fault they did those things to me.

HYT 777

“Get in.” I’m fourteen years old and my Catholic school uniform doesn’t feel like a fantasy. I’m alone at the city bus stop near my house and there’s a chill in the air that has nothing to do with the weather. “No, thanks,” I say, so polite despite the fear beating in my chest. “My bus is coming.” “Get in,” he says again, leaning over to open the passenger door. His car is dirty with a stained beige interior, and I want nothing less than to sit in that car.