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            I couldn’t kill him. Thank God, I couldn’t kill him. I was on the attack, memories pouring into my mind, doing what I hadn’t been able to do when I was a child. It felt like I should have been able to defend myself, and here I was, defending myself. I might have killed him as post-traumatic flashbacks took me over. But I couldn’t.

            And holding the little boy was like a gift, a gift to myself, to the little boy who never had a rescuer to hold him. Maybe I was comforting my younger self as I comforted him.










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