Prologue

My parents gave this to me, thinking it would work as some kind of therapy. You know, since I couldn’t talk about it, they thought writing about it would make it easier. Then I could just close this book and not have to think about it, whereas I would have to relive it every time I told the tale.

It amazes me how much my parents don’t know.

Writing it down makes it so much more definite. So much more final, like it actually happened, and like it wasn’t some horrible nightmare. Every time I go and write a word, I can feel the familiar sensation of tears brimming my eyes.

I guess writing is better than talking, in a way. With writing, no one can interrupt me—except perhaps my own thoughts. No one will have to pretend that they understand what I’m going through, because the truth is, they don’t understand. And they never will, not unless they actually experience it for themselves.

But I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, not even my worst enemies. This is the worst kind of pain imaginable, and I never thought I’d have to live it. I never thought I’d have to suffer every single day, and every single night.

It was like my world had stopped. In a way, it had, and I don’t care if you think I’m being an overdramatic little bitch. But the fact is, I’m not looking for sympathy. I’ve got plenty of that, thanks.

I’m looking for a way out. Not in the same way, of course, so I guess ‘out’ really isn’t the right word. Don’t get all panicky on me, okay? I’m not thinking like that.

I guess the right word I’m looking for is an escape. An escape from the pain, an escape from this nightmare that comes back to me at all hours, not caring if the sun is shining brightly above my head, or if the moon is dancing with the stars.

I want help, but I’ll be damned if I admit that to anyone. I can get through this just fine, I think, but I’ll need time and patience. That’s what I’m asking for. You have to understand that this is difficult for me, even writing this now, despite the fact that I haven’t even mentioned it. Well, not directly, anyway.

I can already feel the pain creeping up in my heart. It’s crushing me again, drowning me. Drowning.

Damn it, there it is again. I hate this.

I guess that means I should get started. The first step is admitting that you have a problem, right? Well…

My name is Kelsi Matthews, and I need guidance.