Does he really think I’ve forgotten? Even after almost 50 years, the thought of his hands all over me burns me like a brand, indelible, still raw, the scab so thin that a good breeze, a careless word could blow it away and start the flow of blood again. Every day is a battle. Every day so far, I win it. Stuffing it in the box, behind a door, behind a wall. Don’t think about it. Don’t talk about it. No one will believe you anyway. That IS what he said to me. I was believed, but it still must be my fault. Never speak of it. The family must never know. And so I deal with it alone, as I always have. And if sometimes I seem hard, or cold or dark, you must know the dark that I live in, the dark that always stares back at me, comforts me. The dark does not judge. It’s how I survive.