Posting this story is ... an act of defiance. It's a refusal to hide what I've hidden from others, as well as myself. But it's a dark story. So please, please, be careful. If you think reading about bad things happening to someone might hurt or harm you in any way, the please don't read this.

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My heartbeat quickened when she turned off the light.

It was dark. I couldn't be in the dark. I had to escape, because there was ... something about the dark I couldn't name, but needed to escape from. I tried to find my way to where I thought the door was, but she was holding my hand, and I couldn't reach the door.

She told me it would be okay. I tried to believe her, because I loved her, and I knew she wouldn't let anything bad happen. She then said something about turning on a blacklight.

The idea of a blacklight made no sense to me.

Black wasn't the color of light. It was the color of darkness. Like the darkness surrounding me, and closing in on me, until I felt like I couldn't breathe.

I started not being there.

Then ... there was a click.

A purple light lit up a corner of the room. The light was strange, and dim, but it was light. Even though most of the room was still dark, I stopped not being there. Part of what pulled me back was the light. A bigger part of what pulled me back were the pictures.

The magical pictures glowed in a way I'd never seen before. They were colored with bright shades of green, orange, and yellow. For what may have been the first time in years, I had smiled while someplace that was dark.

I'm not sure how long I stood there, staring at the pictures, but eventually, she pulled at my hand ... towards the darker side of the room. She told me it would be okay when I resisted. I wanted to believe it would be okay, but I couldn't be in the dark. I had to not be there.

And so ... I stopped being there.

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My cheek stung. She was sitting in front of me. Even though I could see better than before, the light was still too dim to make out her face very well. It seemed to go from anger, to fear, to guilt, and then back to anger. She was yelling at me the way in a way that told me I was bad.

At first, I had no idea why she was so mad. Then ... I found my hands where I knew they shouldn't be. I didn't know why they'd been there. As I pulled them away, I knew, deep down, I was very, very bad.

That's why she was yelling. That's why she kept hitting me.

I was crying as I turned. I ran from the bad. I ran from the dark. I ran towards the blacklight that wasn't black, but purple. I finally found the door I'd been looking for. The light nearly blinded me when I opened the door. It wasn't black light, but white. I left the dark, and the bad, in that room.

I started running. I didn't know why I was running. The bright sunlight had taken away that knowing. I just needed to not be there. I had to get away from the dark, and the ... something else.

I wasn't sure what the something else was. There was a blankness where that was. I stopped trying to push past the blankness, stopped trying to figure out why I had been crying, and just ran.

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Some time later, it may have been minutes or months later, I'd been accused of stealing from her. When I said I didn't steal anything, I was accused of lying. I was also warned that I'd be beat worse if I didn't tell the truth.

I was terrified. I didn't want to be beaten, especially for something I didn't remember doing. I also didn't want to admit to something I didn't do. That would be lying, and God hates thieves and liars. I didn't want God to hate me.

And then ... there was a ... someone. And he said the lie I couldn't say. And I was beaten, but not as bad as if he hadn't lied ... or I hadn't lied. But I hadn't lied ... or stolen. Or maybe I did. But whether or not I did either, I knew deep down, I was just ... bad.