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The world has normalized these stories of abuse. After four years, I freed myself — but how much had I already been shaped? I had woken up early, buzzing from the adrenaline of a series of unaccustomed public appearances following the recent publication of my book. Mindlessly, I opened Facebook and clicked on a message sent by an old friend.
I am writing to you with some sad news , it read. Fred died on Wednesday. I looked ahead, to the morning light bathing me in warmth. I looked back down. Fred had died. My throat seized up. I felt the curl of a smile — the kind that happens when emotions hit really, really hard. I felt confusion, disbelief, emptiness and an ominous weight. Was it lifting, or was it crashing down? All the while, my mind was doing math. My age plus eight: he was 44 when he died.
Then I counted back. How long had it been? I was 20 when we last saw each other. It had been 16 years. I was 14 when I met Fred. He was I had braces, a bad haircut and the confidence of a teenager who had read too much and experienced too little. Fred was tall and handsome, with an athletic, distinctly manly build. He wore jeans, had light-brown hair and sideburns straight out of , a show that had made it all the way from Hollywood to Belgium, where I lived.
I had always had a crush on Dylan, a year-old character played by a year-old Luke Perry — coincidentally, eight years older than he was pretending to be. It was springtime, and my basketball team was playing a tournament in the suburbs of Brussels. Fred and his best friend had shown up to support David, our coach. David introduced us in between games. Fred was cheeky and spoke to me in English — the language I spoke at home.
