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The cold has brought, with it, a sadness. Things I remember that I wish and pray I could forget.

I've never had seasonal depression. I think the closet thing to that I've ever experienced was that first Christmas without my father and every year on Christmas Day I feel a tug of sadness for the family I once had and the sanity I once possessed.

Winter used to be a joyful, nostalgic time for me. It was mine and mum's favourite time've year. I welcomed it happily. Now, I find, I am fighting disturbing memories of certain happenings.

This time last year I was living on a beautiful street in a not-so-good neighbourhood. It was a diamond in the rough so to speak. A small strip of old buildings and shops which take you away, seperating you from the scum that makes up the rest've the city: a small Italian diner, a hidden German bistro, an inspiring stained glass workshop, a small pet groomers, vintage and op shops etc. ...and a coffee shop.

That coffee shop became my safe place in the mess of things that were taking toll in my life then. It was a friendly place where I could spend hours upon hours reading their dictionary, observing the paintings, smelling the soothing aroma of the different blends've coffee they offered. I would try a new beverage each visit, then log it down in an attempt to try every one they had. It was my safe place. I adored and cherished it with my whole heart.

I met a man there. An older man. Old enough to be my father. He was an artist and he was the maker of most've the work in the shop. I was inspired instantly and looked up to him seeing as one've my impossible dreams is to sell a few've my works and have them hang in someone's home. Needless to say I was thrilled when he decided to take me under his wing, to help me better my use of charcoal, pastels and paint. Along with a mentor, I saw a father figure and someone who cared.

I frequently walked over to his studio beneath the café. More often than not, it was late at night between 11pm and 3am. There were two occasions where I was too tired to go home {5am}, and so I slept there.

I knew he took nude photography: a woman in the wood, women in ropes screaming in agony, a hopeless woman in a strait jacket, etc. I've seen nude photography and I love the beauty in the healthy human form. --Most likely b'coz I am not able to appreciate my own.-- I thought he must've had something dark within him, for in his photos of these women in agony, I saw myself. Nudity symbolising vulnerability, mixed with their distressed expressions and the far away look in their eyes. They were lonely to me; lonely, vulnerable, afraid and begging for a better life, for a happiness. I felt them. I was/am them.

One night he picked me up and sat me on his lap, holding me close. I suppose he took my saying I was cold as incentive. I didn't think anything. I was cold and he often hugged me. Sitting there in his lap, in his arms, I fought back tears. Tears of what I am still unsure. I felt like a small girl, a child again, sitting in daddy's lap, being comforted b'coz I'd had a bad dream. Maybe they were tears of finding something which had been lost. Tears of a sad joy to make up for lost time.

I was simply an unknowing prey.

He took advantage of me. He was one of two around this time last year.

Another male, whom I trusted, took advantage of me. He was becoming my best friend. Apparently that was not what he wanted.

I hope this feeling of dread and this feeling if being a slut doesn't last the whole winter... I cannot bare this feeling.

It is so dark.