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I don't want to write this. It's the last thing I need, that's what I've told James, over, and over again. I hate dredging up old memories like this, memories so awful you wish you could just exile them to their tiny corner of your mind and leave them to wither away and die so you can get on with your life. But James says I need to get in touch with my feelings, open up, and let it all out. I've told him, I don't want to. I'm fine being my introverted, boarded-up self.

James is my psychiatrist, and before you say anything I'm not mad, I'm not a lunatic or anything like that. Mum sent me along after everything that happened because she says I'm having problems coming to terms with things. What does she know? What does anybody know? I'm the only one that knows what really happened; and while others can imagine and shudder at what could have happened, that could is only the half of it.

So, I know what you're thinking, why would I want to read about something that sounds so terrible? Well you're right, you don't want to. If I were you I'd put down this book right now. Before it's too late.