Admitted out loud. For what I thought might be the first time ever. “I can’t do it anymore,” I continued to spill my confessions, too weary and broken in the head to cover it up. “I can’t keep raising them in that environment. If someone doesn’t get them out of that house, they’re going to die or, worse, turn into me.” “When you say die…?” “I mean die,” I confirmed, feeling weirdly liberated having adults finally listen to my worries and take me seriously. “Our father’s not done with us and our mother’s not stable enough to protect us. If they stay in that house, they’re fucked, and I don’t
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