I like to think that people live on in other people's memories.
Men, all men, were always trying to get hold of me, you know.
They wanted to hear about the sex, of course. But not the rest; no one wanted to hear the rest.
The fathers, if they got me alone, would try to kiss and fondle me. I hated it.
I'm terrified of men these days. If someone asked me out now, I don't know what I'd say, how I'd react. But I couldn't go through with it, not at all. I suppose I've been terrified of them all along.
If I don't tell it all now, the story in the history books will always be imperfect and that would be wrong.