I don't remember my school. I don't remember the teacher's name. I don't remember the names of people. My mom says i'm in the 3rd grade, she says I love to read, that I go to an amazing school, that I have friends who care for me, that my dream was to be a doctor, that I love the ocean, and that she loves me. I don't remember it. I don't remember my school. I don't remember the people she says cared for me. I want to remember. I want to remember the love that was around me. But most importantly, I want to forget.
I can never bring myself to talk about it. Not in front of mom and dad, not in front of my little sister who still has a chance. I don't want to talk about it. I'm not strong. I'm not brave. I tried to talk to the police I truly did, but there were no words. No words to express the pain. No words to express the fear. No amount of words can ever describe it. Yet they insisted, they wanted me to speak. They even gave me a pencil and paper, they said to write what I had to say. That was it, I felt a burning fire in my stomach. Hatred, no. Anger, maybe. Envy, yes. I felt envy towards them. All they did was try to arrest the culprit, and say "It's all over". They never had to go through what I went through. They never had to feel pain; the shame. They have no right to say it's all over. They had no right to continue as if nothing had happened, while I live with it for the rest of my life.
I can feel it. The stares, the whispering, the pity in their voice. It felt uncomfortable. I was no longer comfortable around my friends. I was no longer comfortable along my teachers or even the principle. I can only think of the room. The darkness surrounding me. The pity the humiliation. I want to be the normal eight year old who wears pink floral dresses. The girl who had a future. The girl who had everything. I want to forget.
