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The counselor sat there as she stared at me in horror. "Where did he touch you?" I pointed to my chest and my thighs. She nearly cried. I still remember. I was played like a instrument. His hands moving to make music of fear. The music was broken and out of tune, almost like a violin missing a few strings. The instrument and the artist did not work together. I can still remember him. Trying to silence the music of justice.
