Hands

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He hid things. Sometimes, from you. Hurts, doesn’t it? To know the truth. You weren’t an exception to him. He didn’t have any exceptions. He never thought of you differently, he thought of you the same. The same as everyone else. He hurt you, but you ignored it. You brushed it off like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. He did it again. To other girls and to other men. You didn’t stop him. You let his rough and heavy hands grab her until she screamed and sobbed. You let him run those hands up and down her broken body continuously. You let him put those hands inside of her. You then let him flaunt those hands around the next day at school. Telling all of his friends what victory those hands had achieved. Meanwhile, the broken and battered girl took her final breaths as she swallowed a whole handful of sleeping pills. She fell to the the floor and everything went black. Soon, the memory of those rough and heavy hands were erased from her corrupt and saddened mind. As the officers were at his doorstep taking him into internal punishment; they asked questions. His defense team answered those questions. Her lawyers asked questions. But you knew the truth. Every newfound piece of evidence was a bitter lie, because you let this happen. You let him do it, because believe it or not; he hid things. Even from you.






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