THAT NIGHT

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That night, I was seventeen.

I was impulsive. I was terrified.

The air was chilly and I was alert with anticipation.

Fast forward two hours later –

I was holding my best friend in the backseat of a car I didn’t arrive in and

I was shaking,

But not from excitement.

All I could hear in my mind was her saying, over and over again, blurring the edge of words and clutching my shirt,

“I’m so sorry. I love you. I don’t want you to think I’m like my father. I’m not like my father.”

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