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Some people say you can move on from trauma, you can move on from the feelings those people made you feel. But what most bottle up about this trauma, is that it'll haunt you until the day you die. Every moment, every wound, every vile comment, and while everyone else is living painlessly and perfectly, your stuck in that never ending movie of how tragic your life is and always will be.

"Dinner", I heard Nolan knock on the door, as I quickly flipped the box of my little knick knacks under my bed. I couldn't let them see what was in this ever so discrete box, that was labeled as a new pair of soccer cleats.

"Coming", I yelled out hoping the door wouldn't fling open and Nolan would sit here with me as he asked me what was under my bed that I kept in a box. How could I describe the contents of this box in anyway where they would understand it?

I took the box back out, flipping underneath it to the photo I hated the most. It was him, my tormentor and previously my fa