I looked out across the sea, so still it could have been a millpond. The early morning sun dancing across the water. A beautiful view it was, and I paused to take it in and appreciate it. The breeze blew my fringe across my face, and I luxuriated in what felt and tasted like fresh air.

Then I turned the corner and saw the man who 18 years ago raped me, standing there, directly ahead no more than 500 years away. He stood silhouetted against the morning light, towel at his feet, staring out to sea. Clearly preparing for an early morning dip.

In any other version of this story he might have been an attractive catch. In mine, he is the man I drunkenly ended up in bed with and who then fucked me while I lay naked in the soft cotton sleeping bag crying. His hot sweaty body pressing into mine, while his beer drenched stench suffocated me between the sobs.

He has probably long since buried the memories of the night, as I did for so long. It’s a shame mine came back with such vivacity. But don’t we all sometimes need the pain of a scar, to remind us why we aren’t the person we once were anymore?

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