B r o ken is how you spell my heart.

I was talking with someone I hadn't seen in close to what was it, two, three years? Ian hurt me not by what he did, but by what he said. He insinuated that he would like to bed me. In his words, "she's mine for the night".

Being the scaredy-cat I am, I froze, as I usually do in situations like this. When I was thirteen some boy pinched my butt and though I knew what had just happened, I refused to believe it, feigning ignorance instead.

Ever since that fateful Sunday night, Ian's been plaguing my waking moments. I'm not sure he knows how much his little joke has affected me, but it has. It's unearthed all those paranoid impulses and random fears I thought I'd buried but knew I hadn't.