You Were Fifteen Years Old

You are seven years old.

You feel eyes on the back of your head. You turn.

There is a group of children standing not far from where you are sitting, quietly giggling and pointing at you.

They think you're ugly and stupid.

—

You are ten years old.

Finally, your favourite author has published another installment of their series. Book in hand, only a few pages into the novel, you are already immersed in the story.

Too immersed to see the man in front of you.

You collide with his back, the book falling from your hands. Its spine cracked on the pavement.

"S-sorry, sir!" you stutter as he stares you down, a look of annoyance on his face.

You clumsy oaf. He will never forget a child as uncivilized as you.

—

You are fourteen years old.

You are sitting in a darkened movie theatre, the arm of your older first date around your shoulders. You don't pay attention to what's going on on-screen.

Your attention is on your date, and where their hand is slowly advancing.

Let them do what they please. That's your role here. Let them do what they want to your pathetic body. You have no say in this, and if you bring attention to yourself, the other moviegoers will be displeased. They won't forgive a prude, stuck-up teenager like yourself. You have no voice.

You think of breaking off the relationship.

You are fourteen years old.

—

"After all I've done for you?"

You attempt to block out the voice.

"After all I've given you, all I've done for you?"

You place your hands over your ears. The voice still continues through your auditory shield.

"No wonder no one else wants to be with you! You are nothing without a partner!"

You are numb, the only sensation being the wooden floorboards pressing up into your face. Still the voice continues.

You are mine. You will never belong to anyone else. I will make you mine. You are mine. This is what you want. Shut up. You've wanted this for a long time. No one else has gotten this yet. You are the first. You should feel special. This is what you want. Shut up.

You are fourteen years old.

—

Why didn't you stop them?

You are fifteen years old.

You idiot. You could have fought your way out. Why didn't you?

You are still numb, but not in the physical way you had been before.

If you didn't want it, why didn't you fight?

You still can't seem to think straight. Everything has been wrong since that night.

You could have prevented this, and it wouldn't have happened. You wouldn't have to live like this.

You just can't forget it.

What are you going to do? You're miserable. Your very being is miserable.

You are fifteen years old.

—

If you tell anyone, they'll laugh. They won't believe you. They'll call you ungrateful.

You can still remember the bruises that appeared.

You'll be the laughing stock of the town. The idiot that didn't love enough to give back. You took the love. You didn't return it. You're selfish.

You're numb again.

You're a selfish, ungrateful idiot.

You remember the blood.

There's nothing you can do right.

You raise the small, silver pistol to your temple.

Do it.

You're still numb.

Do it. Come on. Do it. Show some strength this time.

You hesitate.

Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.

DO IT. DO IT. DO—

You were fifteen years old.

---

Credited to Lordoftheghostking28

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