I met a boy yesterday.

He was 16 years old. His face looked quite innocent, except for his eyes. His eyes looked empty. The eyes are the windows to the soul. His soul must have been empty, like yesterday's brandy bottle.

That little boy was scared, confused. A man was pointing a gun at his head. A man who had told the boy to call him "dad", even though he wasn't really his dad. More than anything else, he wanted to escape, but he couldn't move. He had to do what the man told him to. If he didn't, he would die.

He knew what semen tastes like.

It was true, after all, what his father - his real, biological father - had said. He would never be anything other than a sex-toy. That was all he was good for, all he would ever be. He had not future. Nothing to live for.

Nothing to loose.

He was asking me to have compassion. To not judge him. To understand his desperation. He was asking me to forgive him for not doing better, not being more mature, not making a better plan to get away.

He was crying, but the tears flowed from my eyes.
That boy was me, 24 years ago.

I wonder - will I ever be able to accept him, with all his failings? To embrace him and tell him that it is OK, I will no longer blame him for his act of desperation?

When I closed my eyes and saw his face yesterday, in my T's office, he looked so young and so lost. How can I hate him so much?
I guess what I'm trying to say
Is whose life is it anyway because livin'
Living is the best revenge
You can play
-- Def Leppard

My Story, Part 2

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