The lines.

Zara went to the crate last night.
I actually didn't know what to say.
There was a sickening, falling feeling in me; a sink hole, an elevator drop.
I don't even know why it bothered me as much as it did.
I'd like to say it's entirely because I worry for her: I worry that they are incompetent drivers, that they are pigs who only want one thing, that she is too naive, it's not the kind of place she should be. All of which, to a degree, I thought, but if she is too naive, if she should not be there and if they are all pigs, why is it wrong for her to be there at 17 and right for me at 15?
Of course, it wasn't.
We never knew what was in the crate, but now all there is are memories. Of the car, the dirt hills, plywood, gasping for breath and that sinking elevator drop.
Does it bother me because I am afraid for her, afraid that the same things that happened to me will happen to her? Actually I don't even know why I say it like that, so victimised. I went and did voluntarily, I guess. But I'm sick, and I can live with the guilt and feeling of being used. I don't want her to have that.
Do I just envy her, that she gets to go back? After all this time, that she's in that place, a place, maybe my place, doing the circuit and climbing up that wire lattice? It was nearly a full moon, and it was a clear night, and it would have been wonderful out there last night.
I am angry at them. Angry that they'll corrupt her, my girl, the girl I loved and the girl I never quite felt right with in close close proximity. The most beautiful girl.
I am not a victim. It is not the anger or the fear of the violated.
Just the bitterness of the discarded.