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Chapter One
Phoenix
It has taken me a long time to be okay after my night from hell. I hated being in a large group, hated being touched. In fact, ever since that night four years ago, it has been a battle to rebuild what is left of my broken life.
My parents have done everything they can to help. They found me the best therapist around and supported me through all the changes I made, and I feel stronger because of it. I still can’t handle the crowds, but I can allow people I trust to be affectionate—within reason.
I feel like every person who looks at me can see what happened, as if I have the word ‘damaged’ tattooed across my forehead. What they don’t know—what they couldn’t possibly understand—is that it wasn’t an isolated event.
Words may travel fast, but unfortunately, compassion doesn’t. I hear their whispers, the accusations. It was just one mistake, they say. But they didn’t have to live through it, and they don’t have to remember it on their skin for the rest of their lives. He paid for his crimes with his life. I only wish my best friend Logan and my father didn’t have to shoulder the burden of someone else’s mistakes.
Logan and I were two peas in a pod. The best of friends since the day we were born. Our mothers had grown up together, same schools, same interests, and it was no surprise that they were married and pregnant around the same time.
Logan was born first, almost six months to the day before me. We grew up together, always with each other. Everyone believed that we would end up being childhood sweethearts. We had a bond I thought would never break. Foolish of me, I know. If I knew then what I know now, I would never have invested so much into our friendship.
There was a time when I thought Logan could save me. If I could only find the words to tell him what was going on, he’d fix everything. I was too afraid, though. I was eleven when HE started creeping into my room at night, so cleverly disguised as a friend. At first, I thought he just wanted to hang out with me, that maybe he couldn’t sleep. But for two years he came to me in the dead of night, always a little bolder than the time before.
When his hands pried deeper—places no one had ever touched—I panicked. That’s when he used my love for Logan and my family to buy my silence. I didn’t want him to hurt me anymore, but I didn’t want him to hurt Logan or my parents either.
I should have known hewould want more from me. He just wouldn’t stop. I still remember the way he whispered into my ear to soothe my sobbing and his sick chuckle that rang through the room as I laid there broken and bleeding.
I think my dad heard me that night because as Kyle was pulling on his clothes, the door flew open. Dad snapped when he saw me, sobbing on the bed as that bastard was still buckling his belt. Dad’s hands were around his throat in seconds, punching and kicking him until he found the scissors on the corner of my desk. I screamed, blood flowing from Kyle’s neck as my father sank the scissors into him over and over again.
My mother came running down the hall when she heard the noise, and the rest was a blur. All the adults came flooding into my room. Police and ambulance sirens blared, but one confused face stood out among all the others. The look of devastation in Logan’s eyes broke me more than my attacker ever could have. They took me to the hospital, took my father to jail, and Kyle went straight to hell.
When they moved away after everything happened, Logan and I made a promise to always be there for each other. We wrote to one another every week, but over time, something about my Lo changed. He became bitter and short, and his letters became less frequent until his final letter said it all. He hated me
I’d always thought Logan was special to me, that we’d end up together. But maybe I was just conditioned to believe that by all the adults in our lives pushing us together. But if he ever loved me, how could he blame me for what happened?
As part of my therapy, my mother was told to put me into an activity that would help channel my feelings and emotions. That outlet for me was dance. I started out just doing private lessons, ballet, jazz, and tap. It took me six months before I was brave enough to start group classes. Another year passed before I would let my teacher pair me up with anyone else. It didn’t take me long to realize that dance was my go-to when anything got too much for me to deal with.
When I’m on the stage, or even in the studio, as soon as the first note rings out of the speakers, it’s like I’m free. I couldn’t trust anyone, let alone another boy, so I glided effortlessly from one move to the next all on my own.
As my therapy progressed and I learned new coping mechanisms, so did my dancing, and how I viewed people around me. I can’t say that I don’t get jumpy when I’m around unfamiliar guys anymore; it’s still hard. I believe that I will always have that niggling doubt in the back of my mind, but I have worked hard to overcome that insecurity and to get where I am now.
During the first few months of therapy, I couldn’t speak to Mrs. Jolliff. That’s when she suggested I keep a diary that we could pass between us. It was really dark that first year, but the shame that came during Dad’s trial was hard to deal with. Everyone blamed me. They all called me a liar. They said I wanted it, that I just didn’t want to get in trouble.
Writing really helped me process how I was feeling. It eased the nightmares and brought me peace of mind when no spoken words could. The first year, I would wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, and gasping for air. My mind genuinely believed that Kylewas still out there and was only one step behind, ready to pounce on me.
As the various therapies progressed, the night terrors became more infrequent. However, when I am in high-stress situations or find things changing drastically for me, they seem to come back.
I didn’t want medication to help process the trauma or help me with my moods. I didn’t want to have my senses dimmed. I know the meds are there to help, but after two years of having my choices taken away by evil, I wanted to feel like I had some sort of control with how I recovered.
That was one hard conversation to have with my mom and the doctors. I mean, yeah, I get it, I’m young. They probably thought I didn’t know what I was talking about, but it was important for me to have a say when there were so many times my voice went unheard. I refused to let others silence me again.
