Of course he did, yes, but I should have fought harder, shouted louder. I should have told someone (fuck knows who, not my mother, but someone). I should have worn baggier clothes. I should have moved out at sixteen instead of deciding to stay there to look after my mum. I should never have trusted him in the first place.
The fact that I did none of these things means that I was in some way complicit, at the very least.
I hate him, but I hate myself.