He touched me again. Every night I pray he won't. But the prayers don't work. They never work. They only ignite a flame of hope that burns me in the end.

Maybe it's better to let the fire consume me. At least I'd have control over how I died.

There's many days where I indulge on that one blissful piece of knowledge. Having complete control over the way I end it all is a cherished gift. The hours after he's slithered back into the confines of his room, I'm taunted with whispers of the girl that died in this very room so many years ago.

Her voice is like a whistle in the summer breeze, filled with promises of freedom; urging me to let go and let the storm that is to come overtake me. But like a fool, I don't listen. Instead I wallow in self-pity and fear; talking to you.

I know you're not real but you're the only one who will listen; the only one who can hear me. The only one that will listen and the only one I dare share my secrets with...