I remember hearing my dog barking at me as I left.

I remember the smell of my mother’s cobbler coming out of the oven.

I remember the lawnmower whirring in the distance.

I remember dropping the old book I had been reading.

I remember looking towards the field across from my house, the place I’d spend most of my summers.

I remember it was twilight then.

I miss the crunching of leaves under my feet.

I miss my own silence.

I miss the soft brushing of skin.

I miss the rhythm my bass guitar made.

I miss driving on the highway.

I miss knowing what day and time it is.

All I know is the damp, cold basement floor.

All I know is the darkness that surrounds me.

All I know is the sound of footsteps upstairs.

All I know is the small beam of light when the door is opened.

All I know is his hot breath against my ear.

All I know is his scar underneath his right eye.