(Note: I wrote this many years ago for the now closed website Gather.com. This is true. It was my life.)
One child hid inside the darkness
One child never said a thing
One child closed his eyes and disappeared
But at night I still can hear him whispering, whispering, whisper…
~Dream Theater, Dead Winter Dead~
Part 1: Mr. Bear and ABBA
Tick tock, tick tock, the long arm of the clock dragged from one number to the next. How I needed the day to end, to escape the classroom, the snickers, and the laughter. Please let that bell ring soon. She was talking to the entire classroom, our 3rd-grade teacher, Mrs. Olgren. The echoing click from the wall drowned out her voice as I counted down the minutes before I could get home.
“Melanie, would you please sit still for a few more minutes?” Mrs. Olgren sighed in my…
I didn’t get to write my story of my childhood. Pedophiles wrote it. Other victims of all ages who are used, abused, sold, held hostage, had their stories stolen. The life they were meant to be living, they are not. They are now, we are now, trying to mend, mostly on our own, because society does not want to hear our stories. Society doesn’t want to know about rape in the military. Society doesn’t want to change laws or persecute/prosecute the criminals of these horrific crimes. Society doesn’t want to know about the mutilations that still happen to little girls. Society is made up of millions of little YOUS. Millions that are sitting back with your glass of wine, watching your flat screen tv, and doing NOTHING. You get the luxury of choosing to do nothing.