Sunday, April 5, 1999. A couple of friends and I took the bus into the city center and hit one of our favourite bars. I clearly remember my outfit: black lacy underwear bought the previous year while on vacation in Chicago, a black sequined dress given to me by my dad for Christmas, knee-high black suede boots. Little did I know that I’d be cut out of those clothes before the night was out. I was a bright-eyed 19-year-old whose life was about to be violently interrupted.
We had a great time in the bar and many pints of Guinness were consumed. Later in the evening, high on stout and the buzz of good times, we took a bus to a nightclub to meet up with a bunch of friends. More drinks were consumed and we danced up a storm. A friend from our village was there and we all piled into his car for the drive home. We were all pretty loaded. The last thing I remember was snuggling into the back of the car with two other friends before I passed out.
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