"What's your worst memory of childhood?" Dr. Lecter asked Clarice, and I closed the book and stared into space. And all I could remember were fantasies. My mind is wiped clean of childhood memories. The actual events were so disturbing and painful that I changed them into fantastical and often horrendous scenes that could not have taken place in real life.

I lie in bed and it's dark and I can sleep and I'm scared stiff, staring out the balcony window where a man raises the ax and lets it fall, thock, thock, thock, a dull sound of chopping off heads. As soon as the new head is chopped it appears on the wall to my right and starts talking. It joins the rustling chorus of others that are already there and I think I will pee myself, I'm afraid I'm next for that man to chop off my head. This bed and this darkness is where I was abused and all I remember is the man chopping off heads. The scene made it into Rosehead.