I was only eight. The innocent, precious age of eight. He was thirteen. A teenager. I trusted him. My mistake. He lied, said he didn't remember. He did. I know he did. But my parents didn't punish him. He was young. He didn't know better. He's just a kid. He didn't mean to hurt me. I didn't believe a word of it. I hated him. I hated my parents. I hated myself. I wanted to die. I was only eight and I wanted to die. I was tempted to cut, but I didn't.I was only nine. I had to pretend everything was okay. I couldn't let my grades drop. I had to keep it together in school. Nobody could know. His reputation was too important. No one could know what he did to me. I hated everyone and everything. I hated myself. I wanted to die. I didn't cut, but I was tempted.I was only ten. A boy liked me. A popular boy. But he was only a friend to me. But he didn't take no for an answer. He told everyone I liked him. If I denied it, he told them who I really liked. I was only ten, and a group of boys was teasing me and saying I had sex with him. But they were just jokes, right? They were just jokes, I knew they didn't mean it. I was only ten, and although I didn't cut, I would pinch myself till I bruised.I was only eleven. I lost it. A's and B's. Good grades, for most, but suspicious behavior for me. I stopped talking to people. I was always alone. I wasn't the perfect girl everyone thought I was. When I was falling short, I was yelled at and told to do better.I'm twelve now. I'm better. Everything hurts though. I still hate him, and I avoid talking to him. My mom wants me to have a good relationship with him in the future, but I don't ever plan on it. I don't talk to him unless I'm told to. I don't want to see him again if I have the choice. I hate my stepbrother.