Heard

Forty-three years and some odd months and I am still trying to find my voice. Circumstances have all but forced me to rip this from my heart, or else claw away at my very flesh.

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Her youngest memories are like the pictures in an old photo album. The kind with embroidery and ribbons adorning the cover. Delicate and beautiful on the outside. Inside, however, were the yellowing pages and faded faces which appear to be smiling. Just snapshots in time. Christmases. First days of school. Backyard kiddie pools. Pictures of houses that no longer stood, where she would stand on swirling wooden stairs and marvel at the dust in the sunbeams, like it was sent from another realm.

She was a quiet and painfully shy girl. They said she suffered in silence, like it was something brave and not a learned behavior out of desperation. Before she was ten, another upheaval. New city. New stepfather. New siblings. 

Her mother was talking too loudly one day about how the house she rented had been the scene of a murder. It made sense to the little girl, as she would see the evil that resided within its walls. 

The first night he came into her room, she thought she was dreaming. The moment when a dream turns, without warning, to a nightmare. She opened her mouth to scream, to utter anything, but nothing came out. Her voice betrayed her, as it left her, alone. Unsafe. 

Did he know, as most predators would, that he would be able to silence her with just his foreboding presence? Did he know that her voice would betray her the same way he would again and again? Did he know that his actions would repeatedly break the wing of the fledgling bird, keeping her grounded far too long, for her spirit longed to soar? Away from this place of nightmares. High, like the other little birdies. Somewhere safe. Somewhere where her voice would not betray her. Heard. 

To be continued...