But that evening sleep was not my friend. I dreamt of the rape, of the choking, and the fear of dying. I relived every single second of the attack, but in the dream I was standing in the shadows watching it happen.

I wanted to help. I wanted to scream. Yet, I was also fascinated. The attacker wore a dark blue hoodie pulled tightly around his face. He used his forearm against my - her neck. He pulled up my/her dress and forced himself between my/her legs.

It didn’t take him long before he climaxed in me/her. As he did, he raised his face to the sky and howled.

Oh, my God. I recognized the attacker. It was the boy that took money at the subway toll booth.

I screamed, waking myself up. My mother came running into my room. “What?... what is it Hazel,” she said casting her eyes around the room, as if expecting to encounter a fiend.

“Mom! I know who raped me. Call Detective Morrel!”

Mom sat on the side of my bed. “Hazel, honey, it was just a dream.”

“No, no, no!. Call him.” I demanded