I hand her the letter and say, “When you get back to town, give this to the first reporter from a major channel that you see.”“What’s it say?�...�“It is my story of abuse, starting when I was 5. It also insinuates I am still in an abusive home.”“Oh, no. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”I laugh, “I’m not in an abusive home. Don’t worry. I need to paint the picture, but I can’t flat out state it in case things work out here. I have plans to escape this place if things don’t. As my senses came to, I decided to try and move. With an attempt to raise my left hand, a sudden pang of extreme pain shot through my wrist and up my arm, a searing, morbid pain with the intensity to let a scream out of my moisture-deprived trachea. Minutes passed as the pain dulled to an ache, yet unfortunately the short memory kept the invisible scar alive. Damp, cold air filled my lungs with every raspy breath I took, drying out my throat and tract. The overwhelming sense of confusion, and. More

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