I was 8, or so I think I was, because I don't remember when this locked away secret happened. It was mid day. I wore the required baby blue and white daycare shirt to go on field trips along with beige shorts that went down to my knees. We sat in the back of the van along with other kids. You grabbed at my chest and crotch like a hungry animal. I tried to push your hands away, but you insisted. You told me, if I told anyone you'd choke me out once we got to our destination. So I kept quiet. I didn't tell that part of my story to my parents when I confessed you'd attempted to drown and choke me out. I was easy prey. I didn't fletch when you told me you knew how to **** a woman painlessly because I'd don't want to show fear, I knew you'd pounce. You're the reason I don't trust most men that are extremely tall and lanky, because my eyes try to tell me "IT'S HIM!!! IT'S HIM!!!" I try to do the math to see if you could still be in school or not, I don't want to be in the same building as you. I know your younger sister learns under the same roof as I, but I'm still not sure if you do. And that's why I fear. It's too late to do anything legally now, everything happened so long ago, and my PTSD clouds my memories. I hope you burn. I hope you're hit my a moving train. I hope your death isn't slow, and isn't pleasant. I hope, that you remember me, if we ever meet again, and remember the pain you caused me most importantly, because you should lie in the bed you made, feel guilt, for being the piece of **** that you truely are, Joshua.