Sometimes we feel like we don't really have any options. We are governed by the parents we have and the friends we are put with. We don't have a voice. So why bother yelling?

I was told by a wise woman that sometimes we are just too small. We are too helpless. We can't do anything when we are alone and against the world. But I did something, all those years ago. And it didn't help.

Sometimes, I wish that I could meet him again. I wish that I could pretend that I wasn't me, find out where he lives, dress in a suave suit skirt and blazer and talk to him as if I were a psychologist. I wish I could sit on his couch and make him tell me all the things he has ever done wrong. I wish I could look at him and be satisfied that the others are safe. Or at least that they feel safe.

Maybe then I would feel safe. Maybe then he would stop haunting me, hunting me. He would stop laughing at me when I close my eyes. He wouldn't be there in the corner of the mirror in the morning. Staring.

Maybe then I would be able to put up my hand and swear that I did everything that I could to protect everyone else who might have been captured by the beast. But even still that wouldn't be true. The only real way to stop him would be to kill him, and I don't see myself as much of a murderer to be honest. I already scare myself enough at the though of stalking him.

I scare myself a lot these days. Sometimes, I pick up the knife and hold it blade side down on my thigh. And I wish the metal would slice those four letters into my flesh, so that I would always know that I am safe. Because as long as he is part of me, he cannot hurt me. And until then, he will stagger through my dreams, trying to pull my mind from my body and destroying every moment of rest that I try to find.