I was 16 and in love for the first time.
Going together to the Christmas dance was a public confirmation of our relationship,
and I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.
No longer a child, but a young woman.
High on my newfound maturity, I felt it was only natural to try drinking rum for the first time that night, too.
That was a bad idea. I became very ill, drifting in and out of consciousness in between spasms of convulsive vomiting.
The security guards wanted to call me an ambulance,
but Tom acted as my knight in shining armor, and told them he'd take me home.
It was like a fairy tale, his strong arms around me, laying me in the safety of my bed.
But the gratitude that I felt towards him soon turned to horror as he proceeded to take off my clothes and get on top of me.
My head had cleared up, but my body was still too weak to fight back, and the pain was blinding.
I thought I'd be severed in two. In order to stay sane, I silently counted the seconds on my alarm clock.
And ever since that night, I've known that there are 7,200 seconds in two hours.