Caveat: This post contains racist slurs I do not endorse. It talks about rape. It does not follow any linear format. Somewhere around five or six, ballpark figure. Young. A child. Not the sort of person to shy away from a stranger, which is something both rewarding and deadly. She grabs a Junie B. Jones book, the one with the monster under her bed. She tells me that she’s not sure if she’s read this one already, but peruses it anyway. “Monsters aren’t even real,” she tells me. “Are they?” “What do you think?” “I don’t think they are.” Monsters, my dear, are real. They just wear better disguises in real life. A different girl, miles away. Is raped by someone close to her.…