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.
"This time the other boys call me a bitch and say I overreacted. I didn’t."
“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.