I take the eggs, still sizzling, out of the skillet, dumping them into a bowl. I do the same with the sausage in a second skillet, noticing that it's burnt once again as I dump the links into the same bowl as the eggs in the same fashion. I grab my mug of coffee and head out the door to sit outside on the porch. No toast, I'll save the grain for the cows.

I sit down in a lawn chair, it's a beautiful, sunny Winter morning, almost 50 degrees, oddly enough. I take a sip of the coffee, and set it down on the concrete, still bitter cold from the night. I catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the murky surface of the brew. Nobody would guess that I'm only eighteen years of age. Nobody would have guessed that back when I was only seventeen that I was indeed only a minor. Was it how quiet I was? How I took in and listened more than talking needlessly? The way I carried myself? No. What always provided that illusion of advanced age were the lines at the outer corners of my eyes. "Pain lines," I'd once read them as being called by one of the characters out of one of the many books I've read. I never thought much of it, though the phrase stuck with me. Now, it had more meaning to me.

I eat the eggs and the sausage, sipping on the coffee intermittently. When I finish my breakfast, I set the bowl on the ground with the empty mug. I take a black Zippo lighter and a pack of Marlboros from the pocket of my gray military jacket. I take a cigarette from the pack, put it between my lips and light up, putting the pack and lighter back in my pocket. I take a few drags, lost in thought about what's happened in the past half year, maybe more. I still feel like Hell from my recent four week drinking binge. Today I figure I'll start clean again, aim for two weeks of sobriety; no more puking, fights, driving around buzzed and risking my license and future; above all, no more thinking about the past. I'd started drinking to forget. But lately, when I pick up a bottle and get more than a couple shots into me, all I can think about are the things I'd rather forget.

But it's impossible to forget.

Every time I see him, I see the same look in his eyes. No matter how I try to deny it, I know he can't let me go either. Back then, it'd been for the Hell of it. Neither of us was thinking at the time. I gave him my virginity on a whim, and I made myself believe I enjoyed it. We kept it up, no self control, nothing but our bodies twisting and writhing as one, nothing but our moans,

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