That Wild Summer

I remember when I was younger, I always had difficulty speaking to people, whether it was about my thoughts and feelings or just simple information about myself. I hated questions, but what I hated most was giving answers. Why did they want to ask me questions? And why did they want to pretend to care? The first thing I always thought of when asked a question was how nobody asked it for no reason, it was just an excuse to talk about themselves. The second was that nobody cares how you are doing until you're dead, then everyone wants to get to know you or "misses you". I was fifteen, soon to be sixteen, when I had the most haunting summer of my life. It was a challenging time of my life, and it was even more difficult to speak about out loud. Only six people know what happened that summer, but three of those people know an even darker story. It didn't seem that long ago; it seemed just like yesterday. In my dreams, when I wake up, I can still remember the feeling of their hands and the cold feeling of a knife running down my body. The taste of blood filled my mouth as I cried out. And the constant thoughts of, "I'm so screwed." My body shook with rage as I remembered.