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From One Innocent To Another
by
Natasha Bayes
So I lay here,
still, oh so still in my own delicate, frightening
world. Nothing but a bed surrounding, to comfort
me, to help me feel... safe? It is so
uncomfortable, unstable, so uneasy, but I just lie
here as I gather my thoughts. Nothing can enter my
mind, all is unwelcome, all is shown the exit sign
and all quickly escape in time. All but the
past which, after ten years, manages to haunt my
fragile world. Drags me down, right down to the
ground going beyond the soil which also lies still,
and remains untouched. Though I lie still, I still
lay touched. My innocence stolen, stolen by a man I
grew to love, to respect, to trust. Luckily, that
thief did not become my step father.
At the ground
is where I may be, but must I be so alone, so
isolated, so confused that it makes me unaware of
how I should actually feel? Should I feel scared or
unsafe? Or should I be relieved or content? No one
can tell me how to be, how to feel, how to see the
future, the past. I am too low, too far down, too
alone; at this point, to me, no one else exists.
So I lie here
crying, weeping, screaming at the top of my lungs,
calling out in desperate need of some attention.
For someone to call back to me, to understand the
hurt, to know the truth, my truth, my life. My
hands scrape down my face, scratching, tearing away
at the flesh as I continue to scream with agony and
hurt. I ponder in confusion, attempting to solve
the unsolvable. So frustrated, I want to scrape on,
until the blood drips and merges with the salty
tears.
Still I am
here, all alone with only the echoes of my cries
and the drops of my tears and of course, my
thoughts. No one to help me solve this equation,
this unearthly pain. Seems to me as though the past
is not all to blame, for it has been and gone. Yet
it haunts me, haunts me because I actually allowed
it, and the guilt is slowly taking over my cynical
world.
Am I more
terrified at the fact that it could happen again,
or mortified at the fact that I may forget it ever
happened? So she sits here next to me, side by side
in our happy worlds, not crying, not weeping, not
screaming at the top of our lungs. She is, or so I
thought, unaware that I am still alone regardless
of who may be around. She slowly opens her mouth
and, lowering her voice, begins to speak. She
mentions how alike we were, and how different we
have become, for my past is not so personal. One
other had, without question, stolen her innocence.
Suddenly the
crying which bleeds inside of me came to a halt. My
body and mind are focused as I gaze with fixed eyes
on nothing and no one but her. The words are
pouring out of her, pouring as though they cannot
be stopped, as though a cut has gone far beyond the
stop sign, splits open the vein and now,
uncontrollable rivers flow. The words she spoke
came from her broken heart and her crushed soul;
she really is still haunted by the past. The past
which she, unlike me, has learned to deal with.
Her nightmare,
which she sees night after night, has again turned
to real life. To her, this devastating nightmare
turned real life encounter feels more and more
natural. Like God has given His reasons and she has
to accept what she has done, but
unwillingly. To her it no longer
hurts, it actually feels right which to her,
shouldn't need to be stopped. Suddenly my life
doesn't feel so fragile.
So here I
walk, taking one step after another, my left hand
lifting slightly as I flick my half smoked
cigarette, and the other hand, holding my bag which
feels as if one too many weights have been shoved
inside. As I walk down the long, quiet street which
seems somewhat larger than before, I feel the cold
biting at my back, shooting down my spine. Forcing
a shiver through my mouth, I exhale the smoke into
the freezing air. So cold the air appears visible
as the smoke begins to fade. The sun appears in
between each house almost blinding me, and as I
walk, disappears again only to reappear moments
later, then hides again. My music booms through my
ears as I listen to my walkman and watch the ice
begin to melt and trickle down the brown shivery
slates on the rooftops.
On comes one
of my favourite songs and for some reason, it
reminds me of her. In fact, she never really
disappeared out of my mind, not even for a second.
Since she told me, for certain reasons, this has
started to become almost like an obsession. I keep
running her words through my head, over and over
and thinking, what should I do? What can I do? I
feel as helpless as she does, almost. Walking
towards my garden now, the gate opens and closes
with the wind and releases a squeak as though it
cries out with fear. I stop for a moment and
observe the house. For once, it seems more safe,
and yet I continue to walk down the street, further
and further away from safety. Usually by the time I
reach the bottom my insecurity hits.
I've reached
the bottom; I feel secure.
So a week
later, I wake up, my eyes red raw, tired from lack
of sleep. Tired I may be, but relieved. She finally
realised, finally admitted to herself that this
life, this world that she lives, it just wasn't
right. I finally persuaded her to tell, to confide
in someone like she once did me, and she did just
that. So I walk the streets, lie on my bed which
now feels stable, enjoying life with not a tear
shed from my eyes. No cries of pain forced out of
my mouth, no weeping, no screaming. I feel, my work
is done. I managed to overcome my fear of the past
and the future by saving another. At the moment,
she has not quite cured the pain, the unearthly
pain, but has brought the inflicting of more pain
to a halt. Now only a scab remains to pick at,
to remind. We helped each other in a crucial way,
one innocent to another.
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