But I still dream about it. In my dreams, I'm 12 again, 12 years old and a happy girl with a boyfriend. Sometimes it starts at the very beginning: getting on the plane by myself, calling my aunt to describe what I'm wearing. An hour later, I'm off the plane, glancing around.

There's my aunt- and him. I used to call him my cousin. He's there with a friend, his friend's name is Brian. He's tall, very tall, and he's checking me out. I think he's cute. I don't notice my cousin looking me over, examining my every curve in the tight pants and t-shirt. I was still not fully developed, my breasts and butt were smaller then. But he likes what he sees. But my aunt and his friend are there, and so I'm safe. For now.

After we get lunch (I even remember where we went), we go to my aunt's house. It's hot, up in the 100's, and he says lets jump on the trampoline. Then he puts the hose and sprinkler underneath it. I run inside and put my swimsuit on, not wanting to get my clothes wet and dirty. My hair is red, dark bright red, and I take it out of its ponytail when its soaked wet. I lay on the trampoline, him and Brian are bouncing me. I'm limp like a rag doll, my hips arching into the air. He likes that.

After that we go inside; the boys want to play video games. I sit and watch, and joke around. I don't know anything is wrong yet.

After Brian leaves, my cousin suggests that we put sleeping bags outside and sleep on the trampoline. I think it's a good idea, because it's terribly hot and air conditioners at night give me dried-up sinuses. At around midnight we drag everything outside, climb up. I go to go to sleep, but he says don't. Let's play truth or dare. I say I don't want to, but he threatens to tell my aunt and our grandmother that I'm a pagan. Fine, I say. But don't make me do anything dirty.

So much for that. He finally abandons the cover of a game and kisses me, a slobbery kiss that grosses me out. Stop, I say. I don't want to do this. He ignores me and puts his hand down my pants, his other hand up my shirt. It hurts, he's too rough. Stop, I beg him. Please stop. He still doesn't listen, and I look up at the sky, pleading for it to end.

My dream, my nightmare, finally ends later that week, when I leave. I'm different now. I've put up walls, trying to keep people out. I see my boyfriend again, after I get home. He doesn't notice anything is different, doesn't notice that I flinch when he touches me. I break up with him a few weeks later.

I hate my cousin, more than anything else on this planet. He took away my dignity, made me feel worse than anything. I'm lucky, now; I told my parents and he can't do anything else to me. I have a boyfriend now who is supportive of me and listens when I need to talk. He understands if I ask him to stop, or if I say no. So I'm lucky, I guess. But I still hate my cousin. He treated me like dirt, like a whore he could just take advantage of and not worry a bit about it. He took away everything from me. He'll never be the one that flinches away from anyone touching them, that can't stand to have someone behind them. He'll never be the one that's contemplated sucide, that's held the blade to their wrist and wished they were brave enough to pull it. He'll never be the one put in hospital for depression, because they're a danger to themselves. He'll never understand. And for that, I will dance on his grave when he dies. Bastard.