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Little Soldier

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Copyright, Little Soldier

I’m huddled in the corner again. I end up here a lot. I can’t leave it and I do want to have my security. Darkness. It’s so foolish to be afraid of the dark and yet comforted by it all at once. Man I’m fucked up.

I can’t escape it.

My past.

My.

Past.

It’s around me everywhere I go; on the evening news, in songs on the radio, movies, television, everywhere. I guess people are intrigued by it; they can’t turn away. I wish I could. No matter how hard I try to block it out during the day, even when someone comments about it, it always gets to me.

I bet you’re wondering what it is huh? Don’t worry you’ll find out in time, or you’ll figure it out on your own. Whichever comes first.

I’ve put up a fašade, a mask to hide everything but even that crumbles. I wish I could tell somebody, somebody real who won’t turn their back on me and run away. Who won’t judge me and be disgusted with me. I wish I could tell someone how this still haunts me.

Motherfucker! I hate him, I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my whole life, and to be honest it scares me, a lot. I’ve never ever had a hate so deep toward anybody. When I got beat up in middle school on the bus and jumped in the halls I didn’t hate them. Weird I know but I deserved it. I’m flawed and they knew it, they knew I was messed up.

What did I do to deserve this? I tried to be good, honest I did. I guess it wasn’t enough, no matter how hard I try it never will be. He told me if I wasn’t good, if I wasn’t a good girl they would give me back. My moms would send me back or I would live with him. He would adopt me and I’d be with him. No way. No fucking way was I going to live with him! I don’t know what I would do if I had to live with him. I’d go insane — wait, I already am. I can’t even wrap my head around that right now; it’ll hit me later on. Ah yes, the fallout.

I want to cut or feel pain. Make myself numb so I don’t have to feel anymore. If I could it would be so bad. You wouldn’t be able to see my arms anymore; they’d be really messed up, scars everywhere and red lines that would later turn into scars. Man that would be so great. The wounds that never heal…

I’m a walking paradox, on one hand I crave privacy and my personal space, and on the other I can’t bare to be completely alone. No one’s perfect, everyone has their flaws. Each day I believe that more and more. I don’t want to but the truth is the truth.

I’ve thought about suicide. How could I not when I cut? Anyway, I have thought about it. It seemed nice, just to end it all, take some pills, and slit my wrists — nah, too messy. Pills, they would work. But I can never go through with it and I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s because I have too many people looking up to me. All my camp kids and Jean’s grandkids and any other little kid who looks up to me. They shouldn’t, I’m no good at being a role model. I just thought about ending my life! How does that make me a role mode? For anyone? I don’t know. I’m so confused.

I could talk to someone. About what though? I already know what’s wrong with me I have dissociation. I blocked it out, I blocked what happened out and I just made it seem like it never happened. But when I close my eyes… All I can hear is his voice taunting me and his eyes and everything. It haunts me even in my sleep. I’m depressed also. Well, duh, no one cuts up their arms and shit when they’re happy. I can’t just snap out of it. I wish I could.

You can’t just stop hating yourself one day and than hope that everything will be OK. Even I know that. Or believing that you deserved this. Like I was doomed the minute I was born. I hope God isn’t playing some fucked up joke on me. If he is I’d really appreciate it if he stopped and didn’t do this to anyone anymore. People keep telling me to “have faith”. Or “let the Lord handle this”. If I believed in the Lord and God and all that other bullshit I would but I don’t. I lost all my faith in him a long time ago and I don’t want to go searching for it again. To me if he was real and did care he wouldn’t let this happen to anyone. Ever. I suppose when I’m older this will make sense.

Nah.

Even to adults this doesn’t make sense at all. They’re still searching for answers to these questions, and they always will be. There aren’t any answers unless you ask the person who did this. Even then they’re even more fucked up in the brain than you are so you won’t get an answer you can comprehend.

I can’t remember all of it. Just bits and pieces, I blocked out so much of it, or tried too. It’s so blurry but I can remember what he said what he made me do. What he called me. It’s so embarrassing. Even though he’s in jail. Even though I know he doesn’t live so close to me I’m still afraid. I suppose I should tell my mom but I can’t, it’s too humiliating. I can’t tell her and I doubt I ever will. I’ll tell her enough so that she knows, so she won’t ask too many questions.

Three words is all I’ll have to say.

Three words.

Out loud.

To my mom.

Oh fuck, I can’t say it out loud. I haven’t even said what it was he did or written it down. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. I know I have a way with words, what can I say, it’s a gift.

I have no idea what to do now. I’m afraid to go forward and I’m afraid to go back, afraid to explore what happened. Man I’m so weak, I’m so fucking weak.

Maybe if I try to “say” it, does putting it in this count? I don’t think it does, it might but it’s not the same. Maybe it is, maybe I’m just trying to escape in inevitable, maybe I don’t want to face it. The truth is I don’t, I just want it to go away and leave me alone. Disappear forever.

If I could ask him anything it would be Why? Why me? Why anyone? What made him start and stop, did he do this to anybody else or just me? Why did he pick me out of everyone else? Not that I wish this on anyone I just want to know why? I just wish I could turn back time, retrace my steps and make it so this never happened. Make it so that this wasn’t my reality that I had to deal with every day. I can’t go through one day with out thinking about it. Wondering if other people are going through what I am. Wondering how they’re coping, if they’re stronger than I am or are just as confused as I am.

I don’t want to understand why he did this, I don’t think I could handle why he did this, what made him do this. I’d hate him even more if I got the answer; I know I would because it wouldn’t make any sense. They can’t say he didn’t know it was wrong because he did. He knew what he was doing was wrong and that if he got caught he would get into trouble. If he didn’t know that he wouldn’t have had to threaten me with my moms, he wouldn’t have had to manipulate me into thinking it was OK, that what he was doing was normal. And I believed him. I was so stupid! I knew it was wrong that it wasn’t right but I believed him.

But now I’m gonna move on, or at least try to. I’m not going to promise that I’ll never cut again but I’ll try. And I’m not going to promise that everyday I’ll be all smiles because that’s impossible, at least right now. And as far as talking to some one goes, that may never happen but it might. I may never verbally say it but I think this counts as dealing with it. I haven’t totally dealt with it and I know it will take time but I am going to finally say the three words I’ve been dreading since I realised this.

I was raped.

 

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