I didn't know I could sink to such a level of wretchedness. But I continue to surprise myself. I told the whole story. Then I took it back. I doubt my memories so much I can't say with any amount of certainty what was real or what was merely a bad dream. I had tried to tell my parents. They denied me. I had tried to tell my teachers. They disbelieved me. I had tried to tell my friends. They laughed at me. I had tried to tell the police. They ignored me. And when I find the one person who believed me, who extended their hand in a gesture of kindness, I refuse, I become upset, I become angry that I was taken seriously. No, I cannot accept the implications of that kindness; I cannot accept that something happened. And my soul is so twisted and cold that sympathy appears to be a threat, and I must destroy it by acting out like a child. I am capable of debasing even the purest intentions. I ruin everything I touch. I am so scared. Someone believed me and I'm ashamed.