Laying in bed you count the foot steps, 11 to your room 16 to his. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. The foot steps stop, you hold your breath, hoping he will continue on. The twist of your doorknob, the rustle of your sheets, yet another night you cannot sleep. You lay there until the sun makes an appearance through your blinds, you get up and go to the shower trying to scrub yourself clean, the water turns pink and you still feel *****, you then think, why does this have to happen to me? You collapse and start sobbing in your ****** water. The smell of him radiates off of you, you still can feel him, you remember the taste of his vile body to this day. Why didn't you fight back, or defend, why didn't you confess to family or a friend? Had his demons claimed your soul? Or was this, as well, a victims role?