Despite summer being at its peak, the day was windy with dark clouds looming over the buildings. It was Wednesday. Again.
A roar of laughter resounded in an otherwise empty house. Scrambling under the bed, she opened the diary and began to write. Pencil scratched on the paper as tears streaked her pale cheeks.
The door was no barrier. There was very little time. The diary had to be hidden.
“I know a better game to play. Come on, dear.” The voice whispered.
Strong hands dragged her out.
“My sweetheart.” The breath reeked of cigarettes and coffee. Nausea threatened to suffocate her.
Blindly, she attacked with the knife she stole from the kitchen earlier in the day.
“You devil.” The voice roared.
Twisting free, she stumbled into the rain and tripped. Her knees bleed. A hand wrapped around her midriff. She kicked until the figure threw her onto the ground. The world blurred as a sharp pain pierced through her head.
I sank onto the floor. The words bleed as my tears soaked the pages. Why did I have to find the diary?
How could I even ask such a question?
Rain lashed as lightning flashed across the turbulent clouds. Thunder shook the house.
I turned to the half-empty page; broken sentences, scribbled words, desperation I refused to see. I chose to ignore because it made my life easy.
My child no more smiled. The bright eyes were haunted. She quivered at a touch. Her grades went down. Teachers complained of her inactivity.
I ordered her to stop being lazy. I yelled until she whimpered in fear. I hit my own child. At last, she whispered her secret. Hiccups stalled her words. My brave child shared her scars with me.
And, I accused her of lying. I warned her not to spin tales. I refused to consider the probability.
What kind of a mother would do that to her child?
I forced myself to read her last words- the plea I disregarded.
Mamma, please. I no telling lies. He touch me. I no like it. He do bad things. I cry. Lot of pain. He says it love. I no like his love.
I took your new knife.
I will hide your diary. I saw on TV.
He very bad. Mamma, he coming
She decided to fight for herself when I kept blaming her for not letting me have my personal time once a week.
He offered to babysit. I was relieved. He was my brother. Why would he harm her? He loved her. What kind of love, it never occurred to question.
He said she slipped in the rain and hit a rock; that his wounds were from trying to break her fall. I trusted him. I believed his grief.
For three months, I grieved her death. I blamed the doctors; the rain; my careless child. Not him. Not my terrible judgment.
I was her murderer.
I failed my child…