Morgan's hand went to her hip, fingers skimming over the ink of her tattoo at the question.  Clearing her throat she set down the bottle and the now empty glass.  “I uh...it's really not much of a story.  Well...not one that I can remember.”  She offered an awkward grin and chuckled.<br/><br/>“When I was sixteen I had my first drink.  I was at a party with some people that were certainly not my friends.  There's a large nudist...movement if you will in my hometown.  My parents are nudists as are most of their friends.  Most people keep it private but my parents are very outspoken about it, pushing the decency laws.  It made things...difficult when I was growing up.  Anyways, so I'm in high school, an art geek and the daughter of those crazy nudists.  Needless to say I didn't get invited to many parties.”<br/><br/>Shrugging as if to say that didn't bother her the tension in her shoulders made it clear that it still did.  “I was invited to the party as a cruel trick.  Some of the popular girls and their jock boyfriends got me drunk and started taking off my clothes.  The boys...were...handsy.  I remember that.  I remember trying to tell them no but they kept stripping me.  I finally managed to escape but by then I was naked and drunk.  I don't know what happened next, just what people told me.”<br/><br/>Sliding off the bed and back onto the floor she refilled her glass and took a small sip.  “I was told I broke into the high school, the art department to be exact.  Everyone knew how to get in and out of the art department, it wasn't hard.  Anyways, I apparently painted a bunch of flowers all over my body.  Don't know if I was trying to cover up or what.  But once I was done I tried to run home.  People have...pictures.  Of me.  Running naked through town covered in painted flowers.  I must have gotten lost because I ended up wandering the town for hours before the cops picked me up.”<br/><br/>“My folks said that I was crying and ranting about flowers and drinking and the meaning of life.  Most of the paints had smeared by the time I was brought home.  Except for the lotus flower.  That was the only thing my parents took a picture of.  So I could see it.  They are big on Eastern art and the lotus flower is often used as a symbol of good growing from bad, perseverance, purity coming from filth.”<br/><br/>Taking another sip she continued.  “So after I vomited up all of my internal organs and managed to stuff my brain back inside my head and no longer wanted to kill, they showed me the picture.  We pieced together what happened, though no one admits to remembering those assholes feeding me drinks or taking off my clothes.  I wanted to die.  But they kept showing me the picture, telling me it was a sign.  That I'd painted it and that it stayed.”<br/><br/>“It helped me through it, through the embarrassment and the additional harassment.  The cops tried to crack down where they could but it wasn't like my parents were favorites in the town.  I started drawing and painting lotus flowers everywhere.  My walls were covered with them.  Finally I asked my folks to sign off on me getting a tat of one.  They immediately agreed, even though they don't like tattoos.  But it was special.  It's my own design and we spent months searching for an artist.  My personal talisman.  There as a reminder that beauty and good can come from shit.”<br/><br/>Looking up she bit her lip, meeting each of them in the eye.  Unlike her pegasister confession there was no challenge.  She seemed...unguarded.  Offering each girl a glimpse into her soul.  After a moment her eyes lowered and she cleared her throat.  "Frey...truth or dare?"