I don’t remember it well.

I was 15.

A technicolour blur of a beautiful summer day, such promise at the start.

I remember waking up, I’d had such a lovely dream. I was jumping out of bed happy. Happy to be alive, happy at the summer day, happy to be seeing the one, true love of my life.
I mean, I’d known him a few weeks now, how could someone not be sure of our feelings after that amount of time together?

Then I remember the park. The local park is lovely, if you can bring yourself to ignore the mounds of used condoms strewn along the riverbank.

I met him. He’d been so lovely to me. He flashed me that smile. I adored him. There was a smell of burning, and some rotten stumps where proud trees once stood. We walked through the daffodils and laughed about a pair of boots that were sinking in some mud.

He kissed me fiercely. He held me tightly. I felt safe.

Then he didn’t let go.

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