I sit on the cold tiled floor of my bathroom, clutching my knees to my chest. I frantically look around, trying to name five things I can see and hear.

Air vent.

Shower head.

Curtains.

That’s all I see. My chest heaves up and down in a panic and my tears are staining my ripped shirt.

His touch is engrained in my skin. I can still feel his saliva in my mouth. I can hear his laugh from here.

If I tell anyone, everything would be pointed back to me.

“Oh but you were wearing something so innapropriate!”

A t-shirt and pajama pants are innapropriate?

“She probably asked for it.”

Who would ever ask for that?

“But he has such a bright future ahead of him, you don’t want to ruin that, do you?”

He ruined _my_ future. He _ruined_ me.

He

ruined

_me_.

Yet I’ll always be at fault.

So it begs the question, when is it considered too far?

Where does the line start and end?

And at the end of the day, only one question runs through my mind;

So when does a man become a monster?