If life had a script,

mine must have been written by a drunk screenwriter.

Because of their twisted pen,

I misheard the name of my savior, Charleston, as Charles when I was kidnapped at ten.

Because of them,

I crossed paths in high school with Charles,

the guy in a light blue jersey with an injured shoulder.

I thought I had met the most important person in my life,

only to be humiliated and toyed with for seven years, ...