The first memory I have of being incredibly sad is from when I
was 9 and I was out with my friends trick-or-treating when I was told
to wait in the park for five minutes, after which they’d come back to me.
I
waited an hour before I realised that they weren’t coming back. Or
before I convinced myself they’d forgotten me. Either way, I was crying.
Hysterically. Because for the first time in my life, I’d see someone
hurting me. Purposely.
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