"I was nineteen," I finally say, though I don't know why. I need some way to lessen the blame, curb the hate I see in his eyes, but I know they are the wrong words.
I see him so clearly now, just a boy. Fourteen, maybe fifteen.
Each time I delve into my memory, I grapple another monster venturing from the bottomless depths. I speak without awareness, narrating my journey.
Hoping he'll understand.
Home from college, newly out. Riding a high of freedom and pride and possibility.
His voice is a low, cutting rasp. "That's why I thought you'd understand."
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