It’s one of those days again where my whole body aches. He beat me up when I started crying and
wailing, afraid that it would attract the neighbours. So here I am. All alone and locked up in this dark
room. A sliver of sunshine struggles to enter through a tiny crack in the window. It warms up the
room and makes me feel a little better. Today is one of those bad days because some of my wounds
are bleeding. There’s something very unforgiving about a leather belt on a child’s bare back. I am his
secret. A body that he can use and abuse whenever he likes. At least today he didn't ask me to come with him to the bedroom.
I often wonder about what’s like to have a loving parent. It’s difficult to because I live with a man whom I am supposed to call Father. I am 12 years old now and ever since I can remember, my life as been nothing short of a living hell. I have contemplated suicide often, because of late, death seems like a sweet escape from this nightmare I wake up to every morning. I may be wrong but when I go to school, I realize that it isn't supposed to be this difficult to be a child. My friends come from happy homes and have parents who kiss them goodbye every morning. I don’t remember him ever loving me and I am sure that he doesn't. Because what parent beats their child to a pulp when they come home with bad grades? What parent asks their child to strip in front of them and touch them inappropriately? What parent allows their only child to sleep on an empty stomach? No, he doesn't love me. And never will.
I’ve tried speaking up. But when the moment comes and my teacher asks me about a bruise on my hand, I shy away and tell her it was an accident. He scares me and threatens me and so I protect him. All the stories of this incessant torture are on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be poured out, but then
something dies inside me and I remain a coward. As always. I look at my bruises and am reminded of the sad story of my existence. And suddenly, a fire begins to light up in me and I can’t take any more. Years and years of torture and agony will cease. The sun shines stronger now and every ray soothes my sore body. As the lock turns in the door and he is about to enter, I realize that I will not let him be the author of my story. It’s mine to write.
Across the world, millions of children are sufferers of a common tale of woe. A tale of child abuse. Young lives are being torn apart by the ruthless cruelty of so many adults. It is up to us to be aware of any tell-tale signs of child abuse like bruises, anxiety, confusion, changes in sleeping and eating patterns, fear of strangers so as to create an environment, where a child can feel safe to approach us. Let’s speak up for a change so that our children can be children for a little longer.
wailing, afraid that it would attract the neighbours. So here I am. All alone and locked up in this dark
room. A sliver of sunshine struggles to enter through a tiny crack in the window. It warms up the
room and makes me feel a little better. Today is one of those bad days because some of my wounds
are bleeding. There’s something very unforgiving about a leather belt on a child’s bare back. I am his
secret. A body that he can use and abuse whenever he likes. At least today he didn't ask me to come with him to the bedroom.
I often wonder about what’s like to have a loving parent. It’s difficult to because I live with a man whom I am supposed to call Father. I am 12 years old now and ever since I can remember, my life as been nothing short of a living hell. I have contemplated suicide often, because of late, death seems like a sweet escape from this nightmare I wake up to every morning. I may be wrong but when I go to school, I realize that it isn't supposed to be this difficult to be a child. My friends come from happy homes and have parents who kiss them goodbye every morning. I don’t remember him ever loving me and I am sure that he doesn't. Because what parent beats their child to a pulp when they come home with bad grades? What parent asks their child to strip in front of them and touch them inappropriately? What parent allows their only child to sleep on an empty stomach? No, he doesn't love me. And never will.
I’ve tried speaking up. But when the moment comes and my teacher asks me about a bruise on my hand, I shy away and tell her it was an accident. He scares me and threatens me and so I protect him. All the stories of this incessant torture are on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be poured out, but then
something dies inside me and I remain a coward. As always. I look at my bruises and am reminded of the sad story of my existence. And suddenly, a fire begins to light up in me and I can’t take any more. Years and years of torture and agony will cease. The sun shines stronger now and every ray soothes my sore body. As the lock turns in the door and he is about to enter, I realize that I will not let him be the author of my story. It’s mine to write.
Across the world, millions of children are sufferers of a common tale of woe. A tale of child abuse. Young lives are being torn apart by the ruthless cruelty of so many adults. It is up to us to be aware of any tell-tale signs of child abuse like bruises, anxiety, confusion, changes in sleeping and eating patterns, fear of strangers so as to create an environment, where a child can feel safe to approach us. Let’s speak up for a change so that our children can be children for a little longer.
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