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He doesn't remember how it starts, the clarity. One day he just wakes up and everything is different. Everything around him looks familiar but he doesn't recall any of it—flashes of memories and knowledge that don't seem like his but he knows they are.
He doesn't remember why he has an aversion to touch, only that he wants to crawl out of his skin if anyone gets too close. He starts to carry a knife everywhere and eventually they keep their distance.
His uncle though, that he remembers. Flashes of covetous hands, soft and slick, sickly desire, and pain. Always pain. He remembers all of his pleas to stop falling on deaf ears. Him he doesn't try to threaten. He doesn't try to beg anymore for it to stop. It only makes his uncle enjoy it more, drag it out longer.
He endures it, because he has no choice. When those hands reach for him he closes his mind like his mother taught him and he hides; dissociates and wakes up back in his bed, bruised and sore, emotions scrambled.
He endures it, and he remembers.
He remembers so that one day he can kill everyone who's hurt him.