I feel so empty and alone. I want to go and never come back.
... but I've made promises.
I'm just not sure anymore if they're what's really best for us.
I have no idea what's best anymore. I just know it doesn't feel right at the moment. I don't feel right.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Saturday, September 8, 2012
I need to fix this
I need to get off my ass and stop being a victim
I need to stop hurting the people I care about because I can't let go of the past
I need to do something, I can't wait for it to fix itself
I can't expect anyone to do anything for me
I need to remember what it is to live
why I want to live. I need to find a reason that doesn't involve other people
it's now or never
do I let my past win?
or do I get up and make life worth living.
I used to be so strong. time I figure it out. or I really should have just jumped all those years ago.
I need to get off my ass and stop being a victim
I need to stop hurting the people I care about because I can't let go of the past
I need to do something, I can't wait for it to fix itself
I can't expect anyone to do anything for me
I need to remember what it is to live
why I want to live. I need to find a reason that doesn't involve other people
it's now or never
do I let my past win?
or do I get up and make life worth living.
I used to be so strong. time I figure it out. or I really should have just jumped all those years ago.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
truth
why is it that everyone claims they are searching for
the truth,
but no one is willing to give it
and no one really wants to hear it.
The truth is too powerful,
it has the power to change things
to change people and lives.
It requires us to pull down our defenses
and put ourselves out into to the world,
It's frightening.
And when we see someone else being honest
we are instantly drawn because we know how hard it is,
but then we recoil in fear at the realization of its
power.
Truth to most people is like perfection,
something people claim to want and seek,
but never really grasp.
But I am tired of hiding.
I will tell you the truth if you are willing to hear,
but know the truth is not easily heard.
It is powerful, even when it is only whispered.
So if you can't handle honesty, I am content talking
to you with a mask, but know it is you who puts it
there, not me.
But if you be brave, not fearless, brave, pull up a
chair and I will breathe the truth I know.
I will open my heart with honesty
if you will come and listen.
I will pause to give you a chance to speak of what you
know, I will listen.
And the truth shall flow around
and leave us changed because of it.
So come, sit down, I dare you.
why is it that everyone claims they are searching for
the truth,
but no one is willing to give it
and no one really wants to hear it.
The truth is too powerful,
it has the power to change things
to change people and lives.
It requires us to pull down our defenses
and put ourselves out into to the world,
It's frightening.
And when we see someone else being honest
we are instantly drawn because we know how hard it is,
but then we recoil in fear at the realization of its
power.
Truth to most people is like perfection,
something people claim to want and seek,
but never really grasp.
But I am tired of hiding.
I will tell you the truth if you are willing to hear,
but know the truth is not easily heard.
It is powerful, even when it is only whispered.
So if you can't handle honesty, I am content talking
to you with a mask, but know it is you who puts it
there, not me.
But if you be brave, not fearless, brave, pull up a
chair and I will breathe the truth I know.
I will open my heart with honesty
if you will come and listen.
I will pause to give you a chance to speak of what you
know, I will listen.
And the truth shall flow around
and leave us changed because of it.
So come, sit down, I dare you.
my hands
"My Hands"
I love it when my hands are rough with work
and are bleeding from thousand of tiny cuts.
When they recoil from the wind
and sting in deafening protest.
When they hang off my knees
in a posture that could only
belong to something that knows true exhaustion.
They are on the verge of giving up,
so they never have to work again,
but they keep going out of habit
more than anything else.
They sit there and pray with silent desperation
for the pain to end.
They're not asking for soon,
but just a sign
that one day it will be over.
I love these weathered hands,
These seemingly rough hands
that are capable of such softness.
These hands that can show
better than words
the condition of my soul
I love it when my hands are rough with work
and are bleeding from thousand of tiny cuts.
When they recoil from the wind
and sting in deafening protest.
When they hang off my knees
in a posture that could only
belong to something that knows true exhaustion.
They are on the verge of giving up,
so they never have to work again,
but they keep going out of habit
more than anything else.
They sit there and pray with silent desperation
for the pain to end.
They're not asking for soon,
but just a sign
that one day it will be over.
I love these weathered hands,
These seemingly rough hands
that are capable of such softness.
These hands that can show
better than words
the condition of my soul
dinner breaks
During one marching season, my section became very
close. Unlike most other sections, when a dinner break
came, we didn’t go our separate ways. We would always go to
dinner together. It started out as a thing we did once in
awhile to promote section unity, but it soon turned out
that we couldn’t imagine eating dinner with anyone else.
Occasionally one had to do something or someone new would
join us, but the majority of the group was always together.
We had become such good friends that it was not uncommon to
see not just two or three of us, but the entire section
going out to the movies or hanging out at someone’s house.
Most of us had known the others for years, but it wasn’t
until that marching season that we all truly became
friends.
More than half of us could drive, which made life a lot
easier. It was pretty simple for us to arrange rides for
the entire group to go somewhere. I’m convinced this played
a major role in the group becoming such good friends. It
made us entirely capable of doing things completely on our
own without depending on others for rides and such. Which
meant we could be completely spontaneous, this came in very
handy on several occasions when we needed to cheer someone
up or if none of us felt like going home. We literally
became a family, everyone could depend on everyone else to
be there if they needed someone. Hell we even saw each
other more than we saw our real families. Those of us that
could drive had known each other for years and were already
good friends. And so by constantly rotating who was riding
with whom and how many people were driving, the whole
section not only got to know each other as a group, but
also as individuals as well. I found that the drives to
various places were often more valuable than the events
that occurred there. They were chances to have real
discussions and help one another with problems. They were
chances for the intimate conversations that often fade into
the distance as the group grows. They were just great
opportunities to get to know the real person behind the
mask. Paul and I had known each other for over five years,
but we were never close until he started getting rides with
me that summer.
In the beginning he got as many rides from me as
anyone else did, but slowly he choose to be in my car more
and more, until it was assumed he’d get shotgun. Paul had
always been just part of the section to me. Until that
year, the section was composed of several pairs of best
friends that never mingled except under the pretense of
band or band related activities. Everyone else in my grade,
which composed the majority of the section, shared the
occasional class with me so they had become friends and not
just band members, while Paul remained as just that guy I
know from band. That year was the first year I ever had a
class other than band with Paul. As circumstance would have
it we also had free periods at the same time, which we of
course spent in the band room or somewhere between it and
the cafeteria. So by mid-September we spent all our free
time together, barring time spent sleeping, even that
wasn’t a steadfast rule. Anyone who has ever been in a
marching band knows that between band and school there is
almost no free time, so needless to say those dinner breaks
became that much more special.
As the season progressed the group did more and more
things together, farther and farther from band. We’d go to
the movies on the few Saturdays that we didn’t have to
march or have parties at various people’s houses even when
we did. We had become a group of friends who happened to be
in the same section. The onslaught of these activities gave
Paul and me more opportunities to get to know each other,
so that by the time mid-November had rolled around and
marching season had ended, we acted as though we had been
friends forever. Almost every afternoon we did something
together, even when one of us had to work and didn’t have
much spare time, even then we found a way to spend sometime
together. Often it would be a simple ride home, but
whatever amount of time it was, was always valued because
we knew as seniors our time was limited.
Shortly after the marching season had ended, jazz
band started up and with this the opportunity for more
dinner breaks came. Since neither of our parents were home
by the time Jazz band started and Paul still didn’t have
his license, we decided I’d pick him up early and we’d go
out to dinner before going to Jazz. So three times a week
before rehearsal we’d have the dinner breaks that we had
begun to miss since the end of marching season. Sometimes
it was fast food that we ate sitting in the hallway before
everyone arrived and sometimes it was actual food from a
real restaurant. I liked those best because we’d sit around
talking and joking and never felt rushed. (Which sometimes
was a problem because we wouldn’t show up on time for
practice, but we never minded too much.) At some point we
started having dinner even when we didn’t have rehearsal or
some place to be. It soon seemed like we only ever ate
dinner together and couldn’t imagine a time when we weren't
the best of friends.
Winter soon came and Paul got around to getting his
license, but we still met for dinner until we both became
too busy with school, work and time-demanding
organizations. Not to long after that, a month or so would
go by when we’d only say hi in the hallways or pass the
occasional note in class. We still had Jazz band three
times a week, but there was no free time before or after it
to do something and our dinner breaks fell to the wayside.
Until one day when the snow fell in one huge
blanket covering the ground beneath six inches of snow
while we sat at our desks in school. Paul and I were
sitting in our last class of the day, watching as the snow
fell, praying that Jazz would be canceled for the night.
Class was soon over and we race down the hall toward the
band room, hoping that there would be a note on the door
that answered our prayers. There was. I don’t think either
of could have been any happier.
As Paul and I strolled through the parking lot toward our
cars, we decided that we’d go out for dinner at my favorite
restaurant and we’d sit there and take hours to eat. It
seemed sweeter than any dinner break before it. I could see
in his eyes that I wasn’t the only one that really missed
meeting like this. The night was filled with funny jokes,
old stories and great food. We caught up with each other’s
lives and it was like old times again. That night we
decided that we were always going to find time to meet.
Maybe not everyday like in the beginning, but whenever we
could.
Now months later, our lives have forever changed,
it’s fall once again and we are at different colleges, but
we still meet once in awhile for dinner because there is
nothing we love more than dinner breaks spent together.
close. Unlike most other sections, when a dinner break
came, we didn’t go our separate ways. We would always go to
dinner together. It started out as a thing we did once in
awhile to promote section unity, but it soon turned out
that we couldn’t imagine eating dinner with anyone else.
Occasionally one had to do something or someone new would
join us, but the majority of the group was always together.
We had become such good friends that it was not uncommon to
see not just two or three of us, but the entire section
going out to the movies or hanging out at someone’s house.
Most of us had known the others for years, but it wasn’t
until that marching season that we all truly became
friends.
More than half of us could drive, which made life a lot
easier. It was pretty simple for us to arrange rides for
the entire group to go somewhere. I’m convinced this played
a major role in the group becoming such good friends. It
made us entirely capable of doing things completely on our
own without depending on others for rides and such. Which
meant we could be completely spontaneous, this came in very
handy on several occasions when we needed to cheer someone
up or if none of us felt like going home. We literally
became a family, everyone could depend on everyone else to
be there if they needed someone. Hell we even saw each
other more than we saw our real families. Those of us that
could drive had known each other for years and were already
good friends. And so by constantly rotating who was riding
with whom and how many people were driving, the whole
section not only got to know each other as a group, but
also as individuals as well. I found that the drives to
various places were often more valuable than the events
that occurred there. They were chances to have real
discussions and help one another with problems. They were
chances for the intimate conversations that often fade into
the distance as the group grows. They were just great
opportunities to get to know the real person behind the
mask. Paul and I had known each other for over five years,
but we were never close until he started getting rides with
me that summer.
In the beginning he got as many rides from me as
anyone else did, but slowly he choose to be in my car more
and more, until it was assumed he’d get shotgun. Paul had
always been just part of the section to me. Until that
year, the section was composed of several pairs of best
friends that never mingled except under the pretense of
band or band related activities. Everyone else in my grade,
which composed the majority of the section, shared the
occasional class with me so they had become friends and not
just band members, while Paul remained as just that guy I
know from band. That year was the first year I ever had a
class other than band with Paul. As circumstance would have
it we also had free periods at the same time, which we of
course spent in the band room or somewhere between it and
the cafeteria. So by mid-September we spent all our free
time together, barring time spent sleeping, even that
wasn’t a steadfast rule. Anyone who has ever been in a
marching band knows that between band and school there is
almost no free time, so needless to say those dinner breaks
became that much more special.
As the season progressed the group did more and more
things together, farther and farther from band. We’d go to
the movies on the few Saturdays that we didn’t have to
march or have parties at various people’s houses even when
we did. We had become a group of friends who happened to be
in the same section. The onslaught of these activities gave
Paul and me more opportunities to get to know each other,
so that by the time mid-November had rolled around and
marching season had ended, we acted as though we had been
friends forever. Almost every afternoon we did something
together, even when one of us had to work and didn’t have
much spare time, even then we found a way to spend sometime
together. Often it would be a simple ride home, but
whatever amount of time it was, was always valued because
we knew as seniors our time was limited.
Shortly after the marching season had ended, jazz
band started up and with this the opportunity for more
dinner breaks came. Since neither of our parents were home
by the time Jazz band started and Paul still didn’t have
his license, we decided I’d pick him up early and we’d go
out to dinner before going to Jazz. So three times a week
before rehearsal we’d have the dinner breaks that we had
begun to miss since the end of marching season. Sometimes
it was fast food that we ate sitting in the hallway before
everyone arrived and sometimes it was actual food from a
real restaurant. I liked those best because we’d sit around
talking and joking and never felt rushed. (Which sometimes
was a problem because we wouldn’t show up on time for
practice, but we never minded too much.) At some point we
started having dinner even when we didn’t have rehearsal or
some place to be. It soon seemed like we only ever ate
dinner together and couldn’t imagine a time when we weren't
the best of friends.
Winter soon came and Paul got around to getting his
license, but we still met for dinner until we both became
too busy with school, work and time-demanding
organizations. Not to long after that, a month or so would
go by when we’d only say hi in the hallways or pass the
occasional note in class. We still had Jazz band three
times a week, but there was no free time before or after it
to do something and our dinner breaks fell to the wayside.
Until one day when the snow fell in one huge
blanket covering the ground beneath six inches of snow
while we sat at our desks in school. Paul and I were
sitting in our last class of the day, watching as the snow
fell, praying that Jazz would be canceled for the night.
Class was soon over and we race down the hall toward the
band room, hoping that there would be a note on the door
that answered our prayers. There was. I don’t think either
of could have been any happier.
As Paul and I strolled through the parking lot toward our
cars, we decided that we’d go out for dinner at my favorite
restaurant and we’d sit there and take hours to eat. It
seemed sweeter than any dinner break before it. I could see
in his eyes that I wasn’t the only one that really missed
meeting like this. The night was filled with funny jokes,
old stories and great food. We caught up with each other’s
lives and it was like old times again. That night we
decided that we were always going to find time to meet.
Maybe not everyday like in the beginning, but whenever we
could.
Now months later, our lives have forever changed,
it’s fall once again and we are at different colleges, but
we still meet once in awhile for dinner because there is
nothing we love more than dinner breaks spent together.
echoes
A long time ago my soul was whole...
((SMACK))
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
"How'd you become so worthless?"
"All of this is your fault"
((SMACK))
but then a crack formed...
((SMACK))
"You are so ugly"
"I'm surprised you have any friends"
"How can you be this stupid?"
((SMACK))
and over time more were seen...
((SMACK))
"You ruined my life"
"How can you do this to me?"
"I hate you so much"
((SMACK))
Funny how the words always hurt more...
((SMACK))
"You are such a bitch"
"I wish you were never born"
"How'd I get a piece of shit for a daughter?"
((SMACK))
And more cracks still...
((SMACK))
"You are a fucking loser"
"You disgust me"
"I don't want to have anything to do with you"
((SMACK))
Until it finally shattered...
But with every poem, every painting and every new friend,
I'm putting myself back together. Soon the words I heard
will only be fading echos inside a strong and beautiful
soul...
so many times before
So many times before
have I found myself on these stairs
in the middle of the night
trying to decide
whether it's worth going in.
So many times before
have I hesitated
before opening the door
only to close it
in a wave of uneasiness
So many times before
have I shivered
here in the darkness
debating whether or not
I can survive on the streets
So many times before
have I spent the whole night
on these cold cement steps
wondering if it'd be safer
in there or out here
So many times before
have I been safe
no matter which I choose
no matter where
I spent the night
So many times before
have I gotten the
crap beaten out of me
sometimes from going inside
and others for not
So many times before
has this been
a life altering decision
but not tonight
finally, not tonight...
have I found myself on these stairs
in the middle of the night
trying to decide
whether it's worth going in.
So many times before
have I hesitated
before opening the door
only to close it
in a wave of uneasiness
So many times before
have I shivered
here in the darkness
debating whether or not
I can survive on the streets
So many times before
have I spent the whole night
on these cold cement steps
wondering if it'd be safer
in there or out here
So many times before
have I been safe
no matter which I choose
no matter where
I spent the night
So many times before
have I gotten the
crap beaten out of me
sometimes from going inside
and others for not
So many times before
has this been
a life altering decision
but not tonight
finally, not tonight...
another battle
Another Battle
Immediately after opening the door I regretted it. The
tension in the air was suffocating, and the quietness of
the house was near deafening. I could feel the silent anger
coursing through the hallways, and I knew somewhere deep
within a monster sat waiting to pounce. I’ve been in this
calm before; I know the storm that’s brewing; it’s
ingrained in my soul and resonates through my being.
My instincts told me to run, to get the hell out of there,
for I was the prey, I was in the path of the storm. I
turned to go, but stopped myself. The battle was inevitable
and the longer she sat there fuming the worse it was going
to get. If I waited too long, I couldn’t ever come back.
Besides, I couldn’t let my brother happen upon the beast, I
couldn’t let him get slaughtered as well. I took in a deep
breath and braced myself for what was to come.
With my heart pounding and my breath shallowing, I made my
way through the cold house, hoping she was only armed with
fists this time, and praying I’d find the strength to
survive not only the physical beating, but the much more
damaging psychological one as well.
I finally reached the base of the stairs and began to make
my way up despite the chill that caused my very soul to
shiver. The closer I got to where she was, the more my
knees and hands began to shake; I wasn’t sure I’d make it
up the ever more daunting stairs, but eventually climbing
the stairs was no longer the problem at hand. From the
landing, I could see her sitting in the worn, red chair
through the ajar door.
I crept towards her and stopped at the doorway. During
those few tense moments that I watched my disintegrating
foe from the hall, I began to feel sorry for her. Sitting
there with an exhausted posture and tear-stained cheeks,
she looked older and more helpless than I ever remembered.
I could see the high toll her tough life had taken on her.
She had probably been in the same position as I not thirty
years before. Some part of her knew that the way she
treated me wasn’t right, but that part is just as much a
victim of the monster as I am. I walked through the door
and stood there looking at her as she remained looking out
the window. Seeing her sitting like that made me want to
reach out in peace and give her a hug. I wanted to hold her
and tell her that I loved her, that the pain will go away,
that she will be alright someday. I was about to reach
out, but then she spoke; I recoiled and the war raged on.
Immediately after opening the door I regretted it. The
tension in the air was suffocating, and the quietness of
the house was near deafening. I could feel the silent anger
coursing through the hallways, and I knew somewhere deep
within a monster sat waiting to pounce. I’ve been in this
calm before; I know the storm that’s brewing; it’s
ingrained in my soul and resonates through my being.
My instincts told me to run, to get the hell out of there,
for I was the prey, I was in the path of the storm. I
turned to go, but stopped myself. The battle was inevitable
and the longer she sat there fuming the worse it was going
to get. If I waited too long, I couldn’t ever come back.
Besides, I couldn’t let my brother happen upon the beast, I
couldn’t let him get slaughtered as well. I took in a deep
breath and braced myself for what was to come.
With my heart pounding and my breath shallowing, I made my
way through the cold house, hoping she was only armed with
fists this time, and praying I’d find the strength to
survive not only the physical beating, but the much more
damaging psychological one as well.
I finally reached the base of the stairs and began to make
my way up despite the chill that caused my very soul to
shiver. The closer I got to where she was, the more my
knees and hands began to shake; I wasn’t sure I’d make it
up the ever more daunting stairs, but eventually climbing
the stairs was no longer the problem at hand. From the
landing, I could see her sitting in the worn, red chair
through the ajar door.
I crept towards her and stopped at the doorway. During
those few tense moments that I watched my disintegrating
foe from the hall, I began to feel sorry for her. Sitting
there with an exhausted posture and tear-stained cheeks,
she looked older and more helpless than I ever remembered.
I could see the high toll her tough life had taken on her.
She had probably been in the same position as I not thirty
years before. Some part of her knew that the way she
treated me wasn’t right, but that part is just as much a
victim of the monster as I am. I walked through the door
and stood there looking at her as she remained looking out
the window. Seeing her sitting like that made me want to
reach out in peace and give her a hug. I wanted to hold her
and tell her that I loved her, that the pain will go away,
that she will be alright someday. I was about to reach
out, but then she spoke; I recoiled and the war raged on.
the picture of me
Picture of Me
Yesterday while waiting in the cold, corner office for the
person who by foul fate has become that which I call
mother, I spotted a picture of myself in the farthest
corner of the steel desk. It seemed so out of place among
the stacks of paper, in between the computer and the phone.
I tried desperatly to think of something else, but I just
kept coming back to it. Finally I gave up, but just as I
was about to pick it up, my mother's secretary came in.
"She'll be a little while longer; she's in a meeting with
an important client," she said pleasantly.
I nodded with a smile and she left, closing the door behind
her. There was always something more important. Once again
I found myself alone in that indifferent office. I glanced
at my watch and found that she was over an hour late, as
usual. I don't even know why I agreed to have dinner in the
first place, let alone why I showed up on time. I got up
with a sigh to look out the huge bay windows, but in the
darkness all I could see were the faint lights of the
distant city. Soon I found myself pacing, that's when the
picture once again crept into my mind. I sat down in her
cold leather chair and picked up the photo.
It was of my then best friend and me at my sixth birthday
party. I remember that day distinctly. It was hot even for
July. The intensely blue sky was filled with huge fluffy
clouds. The gardens were overflowing with flowers and the
scent hung in the warm breeze. All my friends were there
and we had an enormous water fight with water guns and
water balloons and hoses. It was an all out neighborhood
war. It was absolutely great! By the time we sat down for
cake, we were all completely soaked, but no one cared, it
felt good in the July heat.
I don't remember how it started or even quite how it ended,
but not even ten minutes into eating, a food fight broke
out. There was cake and icing flying everywhere, and
laughter filled the air. By the end of it, we were all
soaking wet and covered from head to toe in icing and
having the time of our lives. Here's where the picture
comes in. My best friend and I are standing there with
streaks of blue and white icing everywhere making faces at
the camera and giggling through our toothless grins. I
couldn't help laughing while looking at that picture. Back
then I was so carefree and silly. My sparkling eyes were so
full of life. Anything was possible. Back then I had hope.
Hope. I glanced down at my scarred wrists and the tears
began to flow. I had hope. With the tears flooded the
memories of the years to come. I tried to fight back them
back, but it was no use the dam had already broke.
That little girl would soon go through a hell beyond her
imagination. A hell so devastating that only now, twelve
years later, am I beginning to come out of it. I began
pounding the desk with my weathered fist.
"Why had it all happened? Why?" I shouted through my tears,
"How could you stare at this picture all day and do what
you did to me at night? How? Why?"
I stared at the photo and wanted more than anything to go
to her and warn her; I wanted to save her, but it was too
late. I threw the picture across the room. The glass
shattered and fell like fairies to the ground. I sat there
staring at the picture, shaking my head. It was too late
for I was her and she is me, and hell has already come
Yesterday while waiting in the cold, corner office for the
person who by foul fate has become that which I call
mother, I spotted a picture of myself in the farthest
corner of the steel desk. It seemed so out of place among
the stacks of paper, in between the computer and the phone.
I tried desperatly to think of something else, but I just
kept coming back to it. Finally I gave up, but just as I
was about to pick it up, my mother's secretary came in.
"She'll be a little while longer; she's in a meeting with
an important client," she said pleasantly.
I nodded with a smile and she left, closing the door behind
her. There was always something more important. Once again
I found myself alone in that indifferent office. I glanced
at my watch and found that she was over an hour late, as
usual. I don't even know why I agreed to have dinner in the
first place, let alone why I showed up on time. I got up
with a sigh to look out the huge bay windows, but in the
darkness all I could see were the faint lights of the
distant city. Soon I found myself pacing, that's when the
picture once again crept into my mind. I sat down in her
cold leather chair and picked up the photo.
It was of my then best friend and me at my sixth birthday
party. I remember that day distinctly. It was hot even for
July. The intensely blue sky was filled with huge fluffy
clouds. The gardens were overflowing with flowers and the
scent hung in the warm breeze. All my friends were there
and we had an enormous water fight with water guns and
water balloons and hoses. It was an all out neighborhood
war. It was absolutely great! By the time we sat down for
cake, we were all completely soaked, but no one cared, it
felt good in the July heat.
I don't remember how it started or even quite how it ended,
but not even ten minutes into eating, a food fight broke
out. There was cake and icing flying everywhere, and
laughter filled the air. By the end of it, we were all
soaking wet and covered from head to toe in icing and
having the time of our lives. Here's where the picture
comes in. My best friend and I are standing there with
streaks of blue and white icing everywhere making faces at
the camera and giggling through our toothless grins. I
couldn't help laughing while looking at that picture. Back
then I was so carefree and silly. My sparkling eyes were so
full of life. Anything was possible. Back then I had hope.
Hope. I glanced down at my scarred wrists and the tears
began to flow. I had hope. With the tears flooded the
memories of the years to come. I tried to fight back them
back, but it was no use the dam had already broke.
That little girl would soon go through a hell beyond her
imagination. A hell so devastating that only now, twelve
years later, am I beginning to come out of it. I began
pounding the desk with my weathered fist.
"Why had it all happened? Why?" I shouted through my tears,
"How could you stare at this picture all day and do what
you did to me at night? How? Why?"
I stared at the photo and wanted more than anything to go
to her and warn her; I wanted to save her, but it was too
late. I threw the picture across the room. The glass
shattered and fell like fairies to the ground. I sat there
staring at the picture, shaking my head. It was too late
for I was her and she is me, and hell has already come
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