I opened my eyes slowly, and as I lied there squinting against the pounding in my head, I found myself staring up at the forest mural painted on the ceiling. The forest, complete with several small animals peeking out from the bushes and trees, was the imaginary place I had created in my mind back when I was 9. The forest was the place I would run to when Frank, my foster father, was having his way with me. Near the end of my time there I had gotten so good at running there that I would stay there for hours even after he was finished with me. Sometimes I...