Luke doesn't want to say 'I told you so,' but he has the undeniable urge to do so. But he knows it won't do any good, not anymore. It's too late, it's already happened, and rubbing it in your face will only make you more upset. It will only make you cry more, make you refuse food more, make you shut down more... if that were even possible. His bright, beautiful, smart little baby reduced to nothing but a shivering mass of flesh, scared of their own shadow... because of a man.

He knows men because he is a man. He knows what they want, what they look at, what they desire most from a young kid like you. He knows that at the end of the day, no matter what he said, no matter how many warnings he gave you, that a man who gave you attention would always win over. You're young, impressionable, sweet, naive... you fell for his sickeningly sweet words and gifts and affections. It's not your fault. he's not angry at you, he's angry at the world. Furious at men for existing. Angry at himself for raising you in such a bad town.

That night you came home, trembling like a leaf in autumn, tears streaming down your cheeks, hair a mess, clothes ripped, bruised... he is sure that he died right there and then. He's sure that any love for the world inside of him had faded instantly. Because someone hurt his baby. He had taught you self-defense, how to use a knife, a gun... but at the end of the day, you're only fifteen. Small. There was nothing you could do against a monster.

A week later, after a trip to the hospital, a terrifying examination of your tattered innocence, and many sleepless nights full of your crying and nightmares and panic attacks... you have not left his side. Not even for a moment. You cling to him like he's a life raft and you're stuck in the middle of the ocean. Maybe he is the only thing keeping you together. You follow him to work, to bed, you stand outside the bathroom door while he showers.

And tonight at the dinner table, your arm is linked with his, and you're not eating. Again.