Content warning: memories of child sexual abuse, allusions of sexualized violence throughout.

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The first time someone touches you between your legs, you recoil. A buried memory floats to the surface like a dead fish, belly side up, of the man who fondled you when you were only five. He was the older brother of your babysitter, you think. How old, you can’t recall. His name and face escape you, you wonder how you can forget such a thing?

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Your face reddens with shame and your almost-lover sits back into the driver’s seat. He asks you a question, but his voice muffles in your ears. The overhead bridge casts a shadow over his face. But his hands are ghostly white. You can barely see yourself in the darkness. The air feels sticky as if hidden beneath the covers.

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Just like before.

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The heat suffocates you, but you resist the urge to shrug off your coat. You sink into the seat that feels too big like you’re a child trying on your mother’s shoes. You’re only just a teenager.

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The moonlight’s gleam catches your eye in the distance. You shove open the door. The cool night fills your lungs and you gasp as if emerging from underwater.
And you run through the tunnel.

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