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"Who are you?" I asked him. My voice was clear and my bravery disguised the curiousity.

"Your saviour." His voice was so menacing, my brazen posture had diminished.

"Y-your n-name?"

"After six months, you choose now to ask my name?"

Six months. It had been six months. Six long months.

"S-six months?"

"Yes, darling," he continued, his voice sweet but terrifying, "six fu-"

The door bust open, "PUT YOUR HANDS UP!!!"

The light assaulted my eyes. I hissed in pain, the light was harmful.

I could see my tormentor's face.

I couldn't recognize him.

***

Home wasn't home anymore.

In fact, it stopped being home years ago.

It stopped being home when my mother died. It stopped being home when my father started abusing me.

I always made sure all of the lights were on.

Even in sleep, the lights were kept on.

Light.

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